Bang, Bang, There Goes Paradise
by Far Away In Wonderland
Summary: Peter gave Stiles the Bite, but Stiles was never one to lay down and let others walk over him. Peter was the first to find out, but he wouldn't be the last. In one timeline Stiles stayed human and it ended in pain, suffering and death. In this timeline Stiles isn't human anymore, but is it enough to change what Fate already set in motion?
1. All Is Hell That Ends Well

Fate was a fickle mistress. What she gave you with one hand, she took with the other. She dangled food in front of the starving, water in front of the thirsting, love in front of the lonely, unreachable through distance, time and death. She spun her threads of gold and her threads of silver, interwove them, separated them and in the end cutting them with cold eyes and colder heart. Pity for those that Fate paid special attention to, for their lives were short and wrought with pain, strife and suffering. But Fate didn't care – could not, would not – for she was the supreme being of the universe itself: Time, Death and even God himself bowed down to her and when existence itself would come undone one day, she would be the last to end. But until then she would weave and they would dance on her strings like the puppets they were.

 **i. scene one: epitasis**

"Do you want the bite, Stiles?" the man asked. Once upon a time – before fire and pain and loss – he had been called Peter Hale _("Uncle Pete," Anne, his niece would call him, even as the fire burnt away her hair and then her skin, even as her tongue turned into a charred piece of meat. "It hurts, Uncle Pete, make it stop, make it stop, UNCLE PETE!")_ but that man had died first in the fire and then, bit by bit by bit, in the hospital as insanity slowly chipped away what the fire had not cared to destroy. The being that now stood on the parking lot, wearing Peter´s face, smiling Peter´s smile, speaking with Peter´s voice was held together by rage, hate and the unquenchable thirst for revenge _(Tear, rip, destroy, kill! The Darkness screamed and Peter smiled as his niece´s blood splattered over the forest ground and the red in her eyes faded the same as it had in his sister´s eyes)_. "If it doesn't kill you – and it could – you´ll become like us."

"Like you," Stiles repeated. He looked into Peter´s eyes and saw nothing staring back but hate, rage and the cold will to make the ones he thought responsible suffer a fate worse than death. Stiles looked into these eyes and for the first time wondered if one day someone else would stare into his and see the same emotions looking back at them. If the Supernatural would tear, twist and warp himself into the same thing that Peter was now.

"Yes, a werewolf. Would you like me to draw you a picture?" Peter taunted. "That first night in the woods, I took Scott because I needed a new pack. It could've easily been you. You'd be every bit as powerful as him. No more standing by his side, watching him become stronger, and quicker, more popular, watching him get the girl. You'd be equals. Maybe more. Yes or no?" He took Stiles' arm and held his wrist on the same height as his mouth.

It would be a lie to say that Stiles wasn't tempted. Like it was a lie when Stiles told his father that it was fine that he was pulling so many shifts at the station, leaving him alone most of the time; like when he told Scott that it was fine when he chose Allison over him again and again; like when he told himself that he was fine when he was always the one giving away himself piece by piece while others were only always taking.

Stiles imagined himself strong and powerful, unstoppable and unshakable. Imagined himself finally stepping out of the skin of the spastic ADHD kid with the dead mother, the kid who was too smart for his own good and finally being there only for himself. Imagined himself free of fears, expectations and the pressure of his identity.

He imagined someone else. A stranger; someone who wasn't him.

"I don't wanna be like you," was Stiles' answer.

In one version of events Fate would unlink their threads now: Stiles would walk away unscathed and Peter would walk into his second death that would be like his first: fire, heat and the smell of burning flesh _(this time only his own, a small mercy at last)_. The last thing he would see would be his nephew´s eyes bleeding from icy blue into fiery red as Derek slashed his throat. The next-to-last, eyes coloured golden-brown like whiskey, looking at him filled with an untold apology for what their owner was about to do. The hand holding the Molotov cocktail didn't shake as Stile aimed – and he aimed true, like Kate had with the match that took his family _("Make it stop, Uncle Pete!")_ – and shoot. Fate would cut his thread, but it would not fall into the abyss, one fibre holding it together. One fibre on which Peter would claw himself back to life; that and the little Banshee that he had infused with his essence.

But this version of events Fate didn't like. She looked at her threads and where they would lead and found the story they would tell her lacking. So, she took one thread – Stiles', the boy whose mother she had taken and whose father she would take in a few years as well, but not before she had robbed the boy of everything else – and spun it anew.

One heartbeat was all it took to derail the story. One little heartbeat, such a small, inconsequential thing in the great scheme of life. One heartbeat and everything changed.

"Do you know what I head just then?" Peter asked. Stiles tried to wrangle his hand out of the other man´s grip, but he was just a boy while his opponent was a full-grown werewolf. "Your heart beating slightly faster over the words 'I don't want'. You may believe that you´re telling the truth, but you are lying to yourself." And then, before Stiles even had the chance to process Peter´s word, his fangs had already sunken down, piercing his skin.

Pain surged through Stiles' body, setting every single nerve in his body alight. He saw pieces of memories flashing before his mind – _a dark-haired woman smiling at him. Fire. A baby in his arms, staring at him with wide, green eyes. Fire. Another woman leaning in for a kiss. Fire. Screams. Fire. Pain. Fire. Fire. Fire._

Stiles staggered back, holding his bleeding wrist to his body, breathing sharply as he tried to get his mind back under control.

"I´d love to stay and see if you survive the night," Peter spoke, apparently unaffected by what had just transpired. "But one way or another, it all ends tonight. Maybe we shall see each other again when all this is over." Then he turned around and walked away.

 **ii. scene two: peripety**

Some things didn't need changing. They were set in stone, meant to happen no matter what, thousands of different circumstances preluding them, yet all leading up to the same configuration of characters, place and time. Aristoteles couldn't have written it better.

The _opsis_ : the burnt down husk of the Hale house, looming in the dark preserve, surrounded by trees, their branches like the bony arms of the damned, reaching for salvation, yet never finding it. The broken and shattered windows, the particles of dust and hush that still hung in the air, the moon that hung above it all, unobscured by clouds, bearing witness to what would unfold underneath. The ground covered in leaves – brown, red, golden – underneath which the secrets of the Hales laid buried.

The _ethos_ : Peter Hale as the antagonist, the beast in the shadows that had haunted the city of Beacon Hills. Derek Hale, the mysterious stranger whose motives no one seemed to know. Scott McCall, the dashing hero, pulled into this play on Fate´s whims and his fair maiden Allison Argent. Chris Argent, the father who just wanted to protect his daughter from the truth but hadn't been able to starve off the inevitable and his sister Kate, the evil queen disguised as noble warrior whose machinations had all brought them here. And at last, Stiles Stilinski, the loyal friend, of whom everyone else thought as supporting character but who was a main lead on his own. Everyone was here, all their plot lines finally brought together.

The _mythos_ : One was here to protect his love. One was here for justice and revenge. One wanted to finish what she started all those years ago when she lit the match. One was here for his daughter, the other for his friend and the last one for his dead sister. Their motives all contradicted each other and one way or another, one would have to give in – _to die_ – in order to preserve the others.

The spotlights were switched on. The stage was set, the curtains drawn open. The audience watched with bated breath.

"Allison, I can explain," Scott exclaimed, his eyes beseeching his girlfriend to just stop for a moment and listen to him. But Allison wouldn't. A few weeks ago, hers had been the life of a normal teenager with naught a worry but the choice of dress for the winter formal _(after long consideration her decision had fallen on lilac, strapless, clinging tight to the right spots)_ but that naïve girl had not survived Kate Argent. In front of Scott now stood a girl that had watched the fundament of her life crumble down, turning into ashes in front of her very eyes. Everything was a lie, so who said that the sweet boy that had lent her his pen on the first day of school wasn't?

"Stop lying," Allison pressed out between clenched teeth. "For once stop lying."

"I was gonna tell you the truth at the formal," Scott continued speaking. "I was gonna tell you everything. Because everything that I said, everything that I did…"

"Was to protect me?" Allison finished for him.

"Yes," Scott replied earnestly. Allison looked at him, her expression closed off. A small part of her wanted to believe Scott, wanted to trust in his earnest eyes that even now looked at her as if she was his whole world, the moon and the sun, but she couldn't allow that part to take control of her again. She had been lied to enough, been used enough. Never again, she had sworn to herself.

"I don't believe you."

"Thank God," Kate interjected, rolling her eyes. "Now shoot him before I have to shoot myself."

"You…you said we were just gonna catch them!" Allison exclaimed stunned.

"We did that," Kate replied nonchalantly. "Now we´re gonna kill them. See? Not that hard." She looked at Allison and for the first time Allison saw not the aunt that had given her piggyback rides as young child; the aunt who had listened to her when her parents wouldn't, but the ruthless killer that didn't care for the guilt of her victims, only for their race. "Oh, no – I know that look. That´s the 'you´re gonna have to do it yourself' look." Kate reloaded her gun and strode towards Scott who was still lying on the ground.

"Kate, Kate, what are you doing?" Allison shouted frantically, but her aunt ignored her words.

"I love those brown eyes," she taunted Scott as she grazed his cheek with her left hand, making the young werewolf shudder under her touch. Then the click of a gun released and Chris Argent entered the clearing.

"Kate!" he bellowed. "I know what you did. Put the gun down!"

"I did what I was told to do!" Kate retorted.

"No one asked you to murder innocent people!" Chris shouted. "There were children in that house, ones who were human. Look what you´re doing now: You´re holding a gun at a 16-years-old boy with no proof he spilled human blood. We go by the code, Kate – _Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent_."

"'We hunt those who hunt us'," Allison whispered.

"Put the gun down," Chris pleaded, one brother to his younger sister who he still thought he could save. "Before I put you down." Kate looked torn – the desire to kill Scott wrestling with her self-preservation – but before she could do anything, a roar pierced through the atmosphere around them.

"It´s the Alpha!" Scott exclaimed fearfully, his eyes glowing yellow in response to his sire´s call. Before anyone could react, a shadow sprung forth from the remnants of the Hale house, darting around them faster than they could see, throwing Chris Argent against a tree and finally wrapping his hand around Kate´s throat and pulling her with him.

"She is beautiful Kate," Peter taunted his gaze landing on Allison. "She looks like you, probably not as damaged, though. So, I´m going to give you a chance to save her. Apologise. Say that you´re sorry for decimating my family, for leaving me burned and broken for six years. Say it – And I´ll let her live."

Kate looks at Allison and it was at her that she directed her words to: "I´m sorry." Then without a warning Peter ripped her throat out. Allison opened her mouth in a silent scream and was only held back from running towards her aunt´s corpse by Scott´s arms wrapping themselves around her.

It was a cynic irony of Fate that Kate Argent´s blood would soak the same ground as the blood of those that she had murdered.

"I don't know about you, Allison, but that apology didn't sound very sincere," Peter spoke, his face contorting itself into a grotesque parody of a smile as he advanced towards Allison and Scott.

"Peter, stop, please." Broken and battered, Derek slowly stepped out of the house, his body still showing signs of the abuse Kate and her accomplices and inflicted upon it, despite Derek´s werewolf healing. "You´ve had your revenge. Just let them go."

"Au contrair, dear nephew," Peter jeered. "I´m just getting started."

 **iii. scene three: retardation**

In the original version of events, Stiles would enter the scene on the passenger seat of Jackson´s Porsche, pulling in motion the sequence of events that would lead to Derek slashing the throat of his own uncle and taking the mantle of Alphahood for himself. In this alternate version of events, Fate had different plans.

"Hey, hey, hey," Jackson cursed as Stiles hid another bump on the trail that led up to the Hale mansion. "This isn't exactly an all-terrain vehicle." Stiles sent his archenemy _(such a strong term for such a small rivalry. There were bigger things out there, things much viler and more deserving of that term than Jackson Whittemore)_ a venomous glare.

"Did you pay for it?" he asked.

"No," Jackson replied sullenly.

"Then shut up," Stiles gritted out. It was in this moment that they hit another bump on the road, only that this time the car didn't move any further. Instead smoke began to ooze from underneath the engine hood.

"You wrecked my car!" Jackson exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"Oh my fucking God, will you shut up about your stupid car!" Stiles shouted at him. The bite on his right wrist, temporally bandaged with his shirt, was throbbing. "Right now my best friend´s facing a crazy werewolf and I couldn't care less about your car." He opened the seatbelt and exited the car, one hand clasped around one of Lydia´s Molotov cocktails. Stiles didn't know how far away they were from the Hale house or what he would find once he reached it, but he pushed these thoughts out of his mind, instead focusing on just setting on foot in front of the other. He didn't know what Jackson was doing – if he was following Stiles or stayed at his car – but it didn't really matter to Stiles either way.

Stiles didn't know how long he had been walking through the preserve – everything around him looked the same; the trees, the ground, the sky with its stars that only managed to sparsely illuminate the foliage around him – but there came a point when he could make out the faintest traces of voices. They were muted by distance, but Stiles was sure that he wasn't far from the Hale house anymore.

With renewed vigour in his steps, he walked forward, the voices becoming clearer as he came closer to his destination. He could make out the outline of the Hale house against the moon light from above, could see the shapes of Chris Argent, Allison, Scott, Derek and Kate Argent´s lifeless body on the ground. One problem less to take care of.

Stiles stopped at the edge of the forest, shrouded in darkness, the wind blowing against him and carrying his scent downhill, away from the sensible werewolf noses. High on finally getting his revenge, revelling in the death of Kate Argent, Peter didn't hear Stiles ragged breathing nor the snapping of dead branches underneath Stiles' feet. He didn't notice the Molotov cocktail leaving Stiles hand.

The bottle sailed through the air. Only now did the others notice. Peter´s head snapped around, his crazed eyes widening as he recognised what was flying towards him. For a short moment, a trickle of eternity, time seemed to stop. Scott and Allison lying on the ground, clutching each other, wide eyes directed at Peter. The Alpha himself, frozen mid-motion as he turned around to face Stiles. A drop of blood suspended mid-air, flakes of ash and dust dispersed all around, glittering in the moonlight.

Then time restarted. Peter roared, but he couldn't prevent the Molotov cocktail from reaching him. It shattered against his head and engulfed it in a fiery inferno. If Stiles had hit anything else – arms, legs, torso – Peter could have survived. Severely burnt, but still alive. But to the head? It was an especially cruel way to kill someone. Peter was still alive when the flames engulfed his head, when they burnt down his hair and flaked the skin off his face and boiled his brain in its own fluids.

When Peter finally died, it was salvation for a tortured soul.

After Peter´s body stopped trashing, silence settled over the clearing as if everyone expected the Alpha to just stand up and continue his rampage. But when nothing happened, the dead body continued to stay dead, the tension left their shoulders and the breath they were all holding was released.

"Stiles!" Scott exclaimed and ran towards him. "You killed him! Oh my God, you killed him." To Stiles it seemed as if his best friend needed a few seconds to process what had just happened. Behind them Chris Argent engulfed his daughter in a fierce hug, probably intending to never let go of her again, while Derek crouched down next his uncle´s corpse, looking down on what remained of his last family member with an undecipherable expression.

A pang of pity and sadness shot through Stiles as he realised that Derek was truly alone in this world now. Crazy mass murderer or not, Peter had been his last remaining relative, but Stiles had robbed him of even that as well. He didn't regret it, not when it had saved Scott, but Derek didn't deserve this. No one did.

Before Stiles could do anything, though, Derek had already taken off, his silhouette vanishing behind the tree line.

"Are you alright?" Scott asked. "What happened with your arm?"

"I cut myself," Stiles answered and bless Scott for his purity of character, for he took Stiles excuse without any doubt. Sometimes Stiles wondered how he had deserved someone as good as Scott as friend, but usually he managed not to question his good fortunes.

"I´ll never get the chance to turn back human, though," Scott added forlornly.

"Scott," Stiles began, laying his undamaged hand on his best friend´s shoulder. "Killing your Alpha to turn back into a human? You don't know if it´s even true."

"It could´ve been!" Scott protested.

"But what if not?" Stiles retorted. "Would you have wanted to be Alpha? You barely managed to scrap by as normal werewolf, imagine everything that you went through only thousand times worse." Scott grimaced at the thought of it. "Besides, I know you, Scottie. Remember when you stepped on a snail and cried for a whole day because you destroyed its house?" Scott nodded. "So do you really think that you would´ve been able to kill someone in cold blood?"

"No," Scott whispered. "But you could." Before Stiles could reply anything, Chris Argent and Allison were walking towards them.

"You´re alright, boys?" Chris asked.

"What does it look like?" Stiles snapped at the man. "Are you gonna kill Scott now?"

"No!" Chris denied, taken back by the venom in Stiles' voice. "We have a code."

"Yeah," Stiles sneered. "Much good it did to the innocent your crazy bitch of a sister burned down, wouldn't you say." He glowered at Argent, silently daring the man to say anything, but the Hunter didn't raise to Stiles' bait.

"I´ll bring you back to your parents," he finally spoke. "They´re probably sick with worry for you."

 **iv. scene four: dénoument**

Stiles opened the front door to a deserted house. He didn't expect anything else, his dad was probably out and cleaning up the mess left of Peter´s rampage. And for once Stiles was glad for it, because it meant that his father wasn't there to question him about the blood splatters on his clothes, or the blood-soaked makeshift bandaged around his right wrist. Didn't ask why Stiles looked like a soldier coming back from battle instead of a teenager spending time with his friends. Didn't see the haunted look in Stiles' eyes or noticing the uncontrolled shaking of his hands, the shallowness of his breathing.

Stiles managed to make it into the bathroom before he sank to the ground, head grasped between his hands. He tried to breath, but it was as if his lungs had suddenly stopped working, inhaling the air and yet he felt as if he was suffocating. The walls seemed to close in on him, making him feel as if he was buried alive. A sudden pressure was weighting him down, and there were black spots dancing in front of his eyes. He could hear his heart beating, could hear the blood rushing through his veins. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

Stiles didn't know how long it lasted – it could have been a few seconds or a few hours – but when he finally felt like he could breathe again his hands were still shaking. He had just killed a man. Now that the adrenaline was receding, the enormity of what he had done slowly began to sank in. He had murdered someone, had taken the time to think about the most gruesome way to go about it and then had done it. He had become like the people his father caught and locked away for the safety of others. If he knew – if he had seen – what Stiles had done, would there even be one single spark of love beneath the contempt and disgust his father would surely feel if he knew?

Stiles couldn't think about that right now. If he continued, he would shatter, of that he was sure. It had started to rain. Stiles hadn't noticed, but now he could see the rain through the window, could hear its rhythmic beating on the roof. Maybe it would wash away the blood, would wash away the taint that clung to Stiles like a second skin.

Stiles shook his head, trying to banish these dark thoughts from his mind. Instead he turned his gaze to his bandaged hand.

Slowly, Stiles unwrapped his right wrist, afraid of what would be revealed underneath it. If the wound was healing, it meant that the Bite had taken and he would turn into a werewolf, if not he would not survive the night. When the last shred of his shirt fell to the ground, Stiles looked at his wrist and saw nothing but unblemished skin.

He closed his eyes and leaned back.

When Stiles opened his eyes, they were red.


	2. What's Happening To Me?

**i. sequence one: sleeping beauty**

 _No rest for the wicked_ , Stiles thought bitterly as he drove Roscoe through the deserted streets of Beacon Hills. There was no person out and about as if the populace somehow knew what had transpired on this night and decided that they were safer behind walls and closed doors. The rain probably did the rest. It was as if Stiles drove not through the city he had grown up in but in some zombie apocalypse version of it. Maybe at zombie would jump out from behind a corner and Stiles could run him over? He had to chuckle at that thought.

When the panic attack had abated and his eyes had turned back to their normal colour, Stiles had wasted no time: Lydia was still out there, hopefully in the hospital by now if Jackson had called the ambulance as Stiles had ordered him to. Nevertheless, Stiles had to make sure that she was okay. After all, it was his fault that she had been attacked. It was him Peter had been after and Lydia was only a victim of circumstances.

There was no time thinking about what had really happened tonight _(his eyes were red now; not red like blood, but like the fires of Hell, a fire of damnation)_ , no emotional capacity left to deal with the violation Stiles had been forced to suffer through. Stiles knew that he would come undone – break apart at the same seams he had when his mother had died; he had only been makeshift patched after that – if he tried to work through it now, so the worry over Lydia was a welcome distraction, something his mind could cling to like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

Either the bite would take – which meant that Lydia would wake up as werewolf in need of guidance, which Stiles intended to provide – or it wouldn't, a possibility Stiles didn't even dare to think about for it meant that Lydia would die a most gruesome death. So he just drove on, his mind replaying various scenarios from bad to worse, until he finally reached the hospital.

To his surprise the first person he ran into was his father.

"You know what?" Sheriff Stilinski said and Stiles could see in the way his father´s shoulders were tense and in the lines on his face that he was pissed. Like, royally, totally pissed. "It´s good that we´re in a hospital, because I´m gonna kill you. What were you thinking not answering your phone on a night like this? Do you know how many calls I´ve gotten? And now we´ve got the mangled corpse of Kate Argent of all people and a comatose girl."

"I´m sorry," Stiles apologised but he knew that it wouldn't do much to calm his father´s anger, so he didn't leave his father any chance to get a word in. "Is she gonna be okay?"

"They don't know," his father replied, his ire at his son replaced by the worry for Lydia. "Partially because they don't know what happened. She lost a lot of blood, but there´s something else going on with her."

"What do you mean?" Stiles wanted to know, desperately trying to keep the dread at bay. If there was something going on it could only mean that the Bite hadn't taken and was now slowly killing Lydia.

"The doctors say it´s like she´s having an allergic reaction," Stiles' father replied. "Her body keeps going into shock. Did you see anything? I mean, do you have any idea who or what attacked her?"

"No," Stiles lied and the word felt like ash on his tongue. When had it become the norm for him to lie to his dad instead of telling the truth? When had their once so open relationship turned into this bitter mockery? "I have no idea."

"What about Scott?" the Sheriff inquired.

"He wasn't anywhere near when it must´ve happened," Stiles replied to his father´s question and he was glad that he didn't need to lie for once.

"Can I see her?" Stiles asked.

"Stiles, I don't think that´s a good idea," his father replied reluctantly.

"It´s just…I feel responsible," Stiles confessed. "I was her date and the moment I´m not with her, she gets attacked by something." He swallowed.

"Stiles," his father said in that tone that always managed to make Stiles forget his worries. Full of warmth; supportive and strong. "It´s not your fault. You couldn't have known that anything would happen to her. No one could have."

' _You´re wrong!'_ Stiles wanted to scream at his father. _'You´re wrong! I knew, I should have known. I got the clues, but I didn't manage to put it together until the very last moment. It´s my fault!'_ But he didn't say anything – he couldn't really – instead just nodding at his father´s words.

"You can go in," Stiles' father agreed after a while. "But only for a moment. And then I´ll have one of my deputies drive you home." Stiles wanted to protest, but his father silenced him with one glare. "You´re looking like you could drop dead any moment. Allowing you to drive would be grossly negligent." Because he didn't want to jeopardise his chance at seeing Lydia, Stiles just nodded.

"Alright. Lydia is right over there."

When Stiles closed the door to the room Lydia was in, all the sounds that had poured in from the hallway – nurses scuttling around, relatives asking more or less panicked about the health of someone, a baby crying – suddenly abated, fading into a barely audible background noise. Stiles found himself in a typical hospital room: ugly, mint green linoleum floor, white walls and white curtains, which were drawn closed. The characteristic smell of hospitals hung in the air, a miasma of disinfection spray, dried blood, purulence and other bodily fluids. It smelled like Stiles imagined death would if someone asked him. So overwhelming was this smell to his new senses that his eyes began to water and he had to stop and stand for a short moment, taking deep breaths through his mouth as he leaned against the wall with one hand. No wonder Peter had gone insane, Stiles would have as well, if he had smelled nothing but this for years with no end in sight.

Lydia looked as if she was just sleeping if it wasn't for her pale skin that stood in stark contrast to her red hair. It made her look like a ghost or a corpse and only the slow fall and rise of her chest – indicating that she was still breathing – assured Stiles that she hadn't died already and that the nurses would come at any moment and cover her with a sheet. Around her lower neck and right shoulders a fresh set of bandages had been applied, smelling of cotton and polyester, still white as freshly fallen snow.

Stiles stretched out his hand and touched Lydia´s arm, afraid that she would break underneath his fingertips because she looked so frail. But for all that frailty, Lydia didn't look as she was dying. The Bite either turned or killed you, but neither was happening to Lydia. Just now as they had finally resolved all of Beacon Hill´s murder mysteries a new one popped up and Stiles felt like smashing his head against the wall at the fruitlessness of it all.

"I´m sorry, Lydia," he spoke instead to the girl lying in the bed, barely above a whisper. Maybe she could hear him or maybe not, but this was more for Stiles' benefit than hers, even if it was selfish. "I´m sorry for dragging you into this. If you hadn't been with me, then none of that would have happened." He paused for a moment. "When you wake up – and yeah, I say 'when' and not 'if' because I believe that you´re stronger than some supernatural nonsense – I´m gonna tell you everything, I promise." He looked at her, her whole body unmoving, her eyes closed, then stood up and left the room.

 **ii. sequence two: red riding hood and the wolf**

Stiles woke up lying on the ground in the preserve. He knew that he was dreaming; he had laid down in his room, staring at the ceiling unblinking as the moon light shone through his window, its silver rays illuminating his room, creating an atmosphere of otherworldliness, as if he wasn't in his own room but in another version of it, one cloaked in silence, serenity and peace. And when he had closed his eyes _(whiskey brown, with golden specks in it, once shining with mirth but now hidden behind suspicion and mistrust)_ and opened them again he had found himself here.

The trees were looming above him, their branches bereft of leaves. Skeletons, dead until spring would come and the circle began anew. There was no visible source of light – no moon, no sun, no stars – and yet his surroundings were coated in silvery light, shoals of silver sparkles rising from the ground towards the horizon. He could feel the leaves underneath his hands, could feel the earth beneath his fingertips. There was a presence to it, a throbbing – unmoving, steady and old, older than anything – that spoke of something so vast and incomprehensible that he didn't even try to grasp it with his frail human mind.

For a short moment Stiles wondered what would happen if he just continued to lie here, on this Earth that was so unlike and yet so like the one in the living world, caught in his own dream. Would he ever wake up again? Or would he stay here and die, leaves and earth covering him, roots piercing his skin and wrapping themselves around his bones until he was as much part of the earth as the trees around him?

It was only for a short moment, though, that Stiles entertained such thoughts. A split second, only a small fraction of the endless stream that was time, just short enough for him to deny that he had ever thought of it. The events that had transpired before may have tired him, but Stiles loved living – loved his live and those within it – that he would not allow this dream to be his end.

Slowly he stood up, brushing leaves and dirt off his shirt and trousers. There was nary a sound, just silence around him, encompassing the forest around him. Wherever he looked, Stiles saw nothing but endless rows of trees, seemingly stretching until the horizon and beyond.

"Is anyone out there?" he shouted out. It was a shock, hearing his voice piercing through the silence like a bullet. It felt sacrilegious, tainting this dreamscape with something as real, as tangible, as his own voice. As expected there was no answer.

'Guess I have to walk around a bit,' Stiles thought drily. There was nothing that would indicate which direction he should take _(there was just trees and silence)_ so he just randomly picked one direction and started to walk. He walked and walked and walked, and there was neither fatigue nor hunger nor thirst, so he just continued walking through this forest made of trees and silver light.

It came as big surprise when Stiles stumbled upon a clearing. In the middle of it a tree once had stood, tall and proud, a weeping willow that would have made Pocahontas green with envy, but something had uprooted it and now it laid on the ground, a husk of its former glory.

Stiles didn't have much time to take in this queer sight, for something appeared from behind the tree trunk and jumped upon it. Stiles' jaw dropped when he saw that it was a wolf who was now staring back at him.

The wolf was enormous – at least the size of a small pony – and its fur was of the purest white Stiles had ever seen. The silver light that shone through the forest reflected upon it and made it seem like the wolf was glowing, like it had just descended from some sort of heaven. Stiles could see the muscles shift underneath the fur, strong and imbued with power as the wolf stood there atop the tree trunk. Then, as gracefully as it had appeared, it jumped from the tree and landed only a few meters away from Stiles.

The boy yelped in surprise and tried to put some distance between himself and the fierce predator, but unlike the wolf, grace has never been Stiles' forte, so it only took some few backward steps before he fell to the ground, continuing his retreat crawling instead.

"Don´t eat me, please don't eat me," Stiles stammered, his back plastered against the tree as the wolf slowly stalked towards him as if he had all time of the world. "I don´t taste very good, I swear." The wolf gave no indication that he heard anything that Stiles said. It just set one paw in front of the other, making no sound _(no leave rustling, no twigs cracking under its weight)_ until it stood in front of Stiles, gazing at him with its red eyes. Stiles couldn't help but stare in those fathomless orbs that seemed to glow from within as their owner seemed to appraise Stiles. He couldn't help but stay frozen on the spot. It felt like this was something supposed to happen, something which Stiles shouldn't try to avoid and so he continued to return the wolf´s gaze.

Stiles didn't know how long they stared at each other, the human boy and the white wolf _(and it didn't really matter, did it, in dreams time was meaningless after all)_ , when the wolf rushed forward all of a sudden. Stiles closed his eyes and prayed for the pain to be short and swift, but it never came. Instead, he could feel something wet and soft swiping over his face.

 _The wolf was licking him!_ Stiles opened his eyes and when the wolf noticed, it shifted on his hind legs and sat down. It just looked at him, tongue rolling out of the corner of his mouth and apparently expected Stiles to do something.

"Aw, you´re just a little puppy," Stiles cooed. Tentatively, he stretched out his right hand and when the wolf made no attempt to bite it off Stiles started to scratch the animal behind his eyes. "You just want to cuddle. Who is a big, ol'cuddle wolf? You are!" The wolf just closed his eyes and enjoyed Stiles' administrations.

"You´re my wolf, aren´t you?" Stiles asked after a moment of companionable silence between the two of them. "The Alpha?" The wolf opened his eyes – _and now the red had a whole new meaning; blood, battle, power_ – and just looked at Stiles. "Scott never dreamed of his wolf. He´d have told me." The wolf just huffed in indignation _(such a human thing to do; such a Stiles thing to do)_ as if the mere mention of Scott insulted him.

"I don't resent you, y'know?" Stiles told the wolf and he was surprised at how true it was. He resented Peter for forcing the bite upon him, for violating him in a way that would alter him forever and he resented the world for allowing it to happen, but he didn't resent the being in front of him, this part of himself that had only now awakened, this _more-than-himself_. The wolf was Stiles' – his instincts, his emotions, his subconsciousness condensed in one form – and for all the faults that were part of his being, Stiles could never hate himself. The acceptance of himself was, after all, the armour that made the insults of petty bullies like Jackson bounce off him.

"We´re stuck in this together now," he continued, "and I´d rather have you on my side instead of suppressing and denying you like Scott does." Stiles loved Scott – they were brothers in all but blood – but the desperateness with which he held on to who he had been before was something Stiles didn't understand. Humanity, the term was so broad, why only let genetics define yourself? Werewolves could still be human and humans could still be monsters. "What do you say?

The wolf tilted his head as if in confirmation. He still hadn´t made a single sound and yet Stiles somehow was able to just _know_ what the being wanted him to know. There was a connection between them – a bond, unbreakable and strong – and there was no force on earth that would be able to severe it.

The wolf nudged against his hand and then he took off, vanishing amidst the trees, soon completely out of Stiles' field of vision. The forest around him was slowly dissolving into silvery mist, tree after tree exploding into silver dust until there was nothing but whiteness around him.

Stiles woke up and for the first time since the whole werewolf mess had started he felt rested.

 **iii. sequence three: mirror, mirror upon the wall**

The person staring back at him looked the same as it had yesterday. Stiles didn't know what he had expected – maybe his teeth more sharpened or his hair a little bit more grown out – but his reflection gave no indication that he had changed in a way that only a few humans ever had. There was still the same buzz cut, the same moles doted all over his skin, the same whiskey-brown eyes staring back at him, the same thin lips set in a grim line. No added musculature or sudden overnight-sixpack _(which would have been totally awesome!)_ , but still the same lithe body with only small hints of the silent strength that laid underneath.

Stiles could hear his father rumbling downstairs, probably going through the cabinets in search for some unhealthy food for which Stiles had gone great lengths to hide. The sheriff had come home late tonight and Stiles wondered why he hadn´t already left yet, for the chaos that must have been caused by their little showdown yesterday surely must keep the whole sheriff station busy. Not that Stiles was complaining, he sure as hell wasn´t, but he was realistic enough to question it.

He longed to just go downstairs but Stiles feared what would happen if he lost control of himself and changed in front of his dad. He may have come to an agreement with his inner wolf in his dream, but it never hurt to be absolutely sure before springing into action. So now he was standing here, in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection, with absolutely no clue as to what he had to do.

From his training with Scott – if you could call it that, because it was for survival only – Stiles knew that strong emotions triggered the change. Whenever Scott had felt something strong _(when he had kissed Lydia just because he could, even though he knew how Stiles felt)_ his teeth had sharpened, his eyes had glowed or his nails had turned into claws, ready to viciously tear into anything that dared to stand in his way.

So Stiles tried to summon something similar, an emotion that would elicit a reaction from the wolf within him. He thought about his father, still clueless about the Supernatural, about Scott who for all his idiocy was still his best friend and who was way above his head in this deadly game he had found himself in, about Melissa who had taken the role of mother to Stiles when his own couldn't be it anymore. He thought about them and his need to protect them and he thought about his mother whom he failed to protect, even though it had been her own mind that had killed her in the end. They were his family and he would rather see the world burn that allow any harm to come to them.

They were _his pack_.

When Stiles looked back at his reflection, his eyes were glowing red. His ears were pointed now, with fuzzy hair growing at their tips and elongated fangs protruded out of his mouth. He looked down on his hands and instead of human nails he had black claws at the tips of his fingers now. If Stiles was allowed to say so, he did look pretty fearsome.

"Awesome," he whispered. His voice was deeper now, a growl reverberating through his whole body when he spoke. It had an animalistic sound to it like somehow had laid some pretty neat effects over it.

But how to turn back? Stiles closed his eyes, let go of this urge to protect and let the pictures of those he loved fade away in his mind. When he opened his eyes again, his human self was staring back at him from the mirror.

 **iv. sequence four: the boy who cried wolf**

By day the Hale house didn't look as imposing as it had during the night before. It still was a charred skeleton, a husk of what it had been, with the fresh wounds of their late night´s showdown: the broken door, the red blotch on the ground that indicated where Kate had stood when Peter had torn out her throat, the smell of wolfsbane and blood hanging in the air. Peter´s corpse wasn't there, probably taken away by Derek before the police had taken Kate´s body to the morgue.

Stiles had his hands stuck in his pockets, the cold seeping through his jacket and shirt, his breath condensing the moment it left his mouth and floated skywards.

He stood there for a while, just looking and taking in the sounds – a lonely bird chirping, wind swirling leaves up, mice and other animals scuttling over the ground – before he opened his mouth.

"Derek!" he shouted, his voice reverberating uncomfortably loud through the forest. No answer.

"Derek, come on!" Stiles shouted again, as he slowly made his way towards the house. "I know you´re somewhere around here." He took the steps leading up to the veranda, his skin crawling the nearer he came towards this house. It was as if the gruesome death of its occupants still hung in the air, poisoning the atmosphere and warning everyone who dared to come near. Stiles couldn't fathom how Derek could stand being here. It must be even worse for him as it were the spectres of his own family that haunted these walls.

The door was unhinged and broken on the ground, so Stiles stepped over it, entering the staircase.

"Derek!" he called again. "I know you´re looming around here, and I ain´t gonna leave before you talk to me."

"What do you want, Stiles," came Derek´s voice all of a sudden. Stiles flailed around with his arms and nearly fell back on his ass, but he regained balance just in time to prevent catch the doorframe with his hand. The wood crackled forebodingly, but it held. Derek meanwhile regarded him coldly from up the staircase where he stood. With one move he jumped down the stairs and landed directly in front of Stiles.

 _Smooth motherfucker,_ Stiles thought inwardly.

"Do you greet all your guests like this or am I just that special?" was what came out of his mouth. Derek meanwhile had this look on his face that he only ever regarded Stiles with, this mixture of murderous rage and constipation that only his eyebrows could pull off.

"What. Do. You. Want?" Derek repeated again. Apparently, patience wasn't really something the other werewolf had in spades.

"Just because you live like a caveman doesn't mean you must behave like one," Stiles couldn't help himself but saying and did he imagined it, or did Derek just low-key growl at him?

"Look," Stiles continued before Derek decided that ripping Stiles' throat out with his teeth was the preferable outcome of this encounter. "I need your help with something. Something important. A matter of life and death."

"What do you need my help with?" Derek asked. Stiles took a deep breath.

"This," he said and let his eyes flash red.

* * *

 **AN:** Don´t expect any updates before December 15th as I signed myself up for a fandom big bang that is due on this day. Comments are love 3


	3. Love and Loss

**AN:** I´m reading all of your reviews and I´m so happy about every single of them ^^

* * *

 **first memory: the present**

The words left Stiles mouth and for a moment it seemed like they had no impact on reality. As if they simply bounced off it, shrugged off by the fabric of existence because they weren't worth the notice. They hung in limbo, a thin strand connecting Stiles with Derek and the former wondered how the older werewolf would react to the announcement that Stiles had stolen his birth right, his family legacy when he had shown nothing but contempt for it.

"How?" It was such a small word and yet it encompassed so many nuances, conveyed so many questions. Stiles drew in a deep breath.

"Before the big showdown," Stiles began and somehow the words felt wrong in his head, because showdown was just the wrong word for it; it implied a great battle between the forces of good and evil, black and white, but yesterday there had been nothing but shades of grey. "Peter forced me to locate Scott. He bit me and it must´ve taken, because I´m still here, y`know? And then when I killed him with the Molotov cocktail…" He let the rest of the sentence hanging in the air, allowing Derek to come to his own conclusions.

The Hale wolf´s face remained impassive, his green eyes still staring at Stiles intensely.

"I didn't mean to," Stiles defended himself, because he felt like he was judged under Derek´s heavy stare. "I needed to save my friends and…and I wasn't even turned completely, so how should I have known that whatever magic mojo is at play here would give the Alphahood to me?" Stiles waved about with his arms to emphasise these – in his opinion at least – well-made points.

"And what do you want from me now?" Derek asked. Stiles was slowly starting to freak out a little bit, because he had never seen Derek this unemotional. It was disconnecting and he wondered if something in Derek had broken completely when he was forced to watch the last member of his family die in a most gruesome way. If the realisation of his loneliness had sucked out what was left of his humanity.

"I need you to help me," Stiles pleaded. "Scott barely managed to get through this whole turning thing and that only because I helped him, but he didn't have to deal with so much at once." Stiles knew that it wasn't fair to his best friend; after all, while Scott had only been a beta upon turning he also had had to deal with a crazy Alpha and great lack of important knowledge while Stiles suffered under neither. But he needed to bring his point across and Scott wasn't here, anyway. "I don't want the next weeks to be full of me barely able to control myself and having one close encounter with the Argents after another." Stiles sighed. "I don´t want to scrap by like Scott. For better or worse, this is something I have to live with it now." Stiles was breathing heavily at the end of his explanation, but he needed Derek to understand. There was no one else who had the ability to help him.

"What do you think I can do?" Derek wanted to know, his arms folded, his posture defensive, as if he was expecting Stiles to attack him.

"You´ve been a werewolf your whole life," Stiles replied, "You´ve never known anything else. It´s not just the practical side of things, but also everything else: the traditions, the lore, the rituals. Being a werewolf must be more than just turning furry once a month, I don't believe anything else."

Silence. Then, "Alright."

"Wait, what?" Stiles floundered. "No Eyebrows of Doom, no threatening of bodily harm to my defenceless self?"

"You aren't that defenceless anymore, are you?" Wow, eyebrows shouldn't be able to project such a broad spectrum of sarcasm. "Be her tomorrow at ten." Before Stiles could say anything, Derek had already turned his back to him and was walking back towards the Hale house.

"But what should I do till then?" Stiles shouted after him.

"Don't try to kill anyone!" Derek shouted back. Stiles just rolled his eyes at the werewolf, but then turned around and made his way back towards Roscoe.

"Not killing anyone," he mumbled to himself. "Shouldn't be that difficult." He shouldn't have said it, because right in this moment, he jolted against a tree branch lying on the ground, covered by leaves, and – werewolf reflexes or not – fell straight on his face.

"Ow."

 **second memory: ghost house**

Derek listened to the sound of Stiles' jeep slowly fading away until he couldn't hear it anymore, which meant that the boy was well past the boundaries of the Preserve. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, taking in deep and controlled breaths. The cold of the concrete at his back was slowly seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, but it didn't bother Derek. He slung his arms around his knees and leaned his forehead on them, just focusing on listening. He could hear the wind whistling through the cracks in walls, could hear the rustling of the leaves and some animals – probably mice – scurrying underneath the floorboards. He could hear birds – those that hadn't left for warmer regions – tweeting in the trees that surrounded the clearing on which the Hale house stood. With some effort, he could even hear the joggers that threaded some of the still used paths of the Preserve, breathing heavily as they pushed their bodies to the edge of exhaustion.

There were things Derek didn't hear, though.

He didn't hear his mother humming along to some song in her head as she cooked them the only dish she could do without burning anything _("Maybe I can´t cook, but that doesn't mean that I´m not allowed to like it.")_. He didn't hear the soundtrack of High School Musical booming through Cora´s closed door on the highest volume, driving everyone in the house up the walls, didn't hear Vanessa Hudgen´s voice lamenting the end of her fleeting High School romance. He didn't hear Laura´s carefree laughter as she stood at the edge of the clearing, talking to her friends on the phone, because that was the only place where the rest of the family couldn't hear what the person on the other side was saying. He didn't hear the clank of his father´s tools as he worked on another piece of furniture for their living room, his hand steady and his expression concentrated as he shaped another piece of wood into something that would one day be part of their home.

Instead there was only this infernal silence that penetrated the whole house, covering it like shroud, squeezing the life out of it.

Derek opened his eyes and stared at the wall opposite of him. The grey of the concrete was blotched with dark stains, cracks covering it like a giant spider web. At its edges, there were still some remains of the wallpaper that had covered the room before the fire, now yellowed and barely recognisable as such. The glass in the window was still unbroken, having survived the fire as well as the neglect that followed. It was covered by a thick sheen of dust that scattered the sunlight shining through it like a prism, making spots of sunlight dance through the room.

This had been Derek´s room.

The wallpaper had been blue once. Not blue like the sea, but blue like the sky on a sunny summer day; a gentle and calming blue that soothed you while you were lying on your bed and freaking out about the boy from your basketball team whom you kissed after training.

There had been stars on the ceiling that would glow in the dark. Derek had glued them there with his father when he had been seven, a chaotic and messy endeavour. But ever since then Derek had fallen asleep to a night sky that reminded him that his father was watching over him even if he was on the other side of the country for business.

A shelf full of books had stood on the wall against which Derek was sitting now. It had been filled with all kinds of book, but mainly science fiction because one day Derek had wanted to discover space like the heroes in the books did. Now the only thing left of his dreams, the books and the shelf were a few charred case boards littering the ground.

Originally, Derek had planned to leave Beacon Hills the moment he had found Laura. But then Laura had been killed, someone else taken her power and this kid – Scott McCall – had been bitten. Derek´s offer of help had been genuine then, the only way he knew how to reach out. He had never been good at expressing himself, at opening up about his emotion, something his sisters had always ridiculed him for. He tried to reach out, because the lone wolf dies while the pack survives, but McCall hadn't taken his offer, mainly because of suspicions Stiles had instilled in him.

Derek had been tempted to just outright refuse Stiles' request for help when he had come to him. Twice Stiles had taken away any chance at getting his pack back, first when he fanned the suspicion in Scott´s mind and second when he had taken the Alpha powers, even if only by accident. But then Stiles had told him that he wanted more than just physically being a werewolf. He wanted more than the strength, the super-hearing and the healing factor. He wanted the lore, the traditions and the rituals – he wanted to truly _be_ a werewolf – and Derek remembered that he was the last Hale and that all these things would die with him if he didn't pass them on. And maybe Stiles wasn't the ideal candidate for that, but the Hales had weathered the witch burnings, the journey over the Atlantic and the dangers of the New World, a civil, two world and one cold war and Derek wouldn't be the one to let their name die in a fire that he had caused.

So, maybe Stiles wasn't what he would have chosen, but it was better than nothing and so Derek had agreed to help him.

Their lore would survive, even if their name wouldn't.

His legs were slowly going numb, so Derek stood up, flexing his shoulders to shake off the cold. There wasn't any door left, so he could just step outside into the hallway. A few sunrays were streaming through the holes in the ceiling, but otherwise it laid in a half-darkness, a few particles of dust floating in the air the only things that moved. His parent´s bedroom had been at the end of the hallway, the door hanging askew on its hinges now, the main bathroom on the right. Laura´s room right next to his and Cora´s opposite of him. Once a month, all three Hale siblings had arranged themselves at the wall and their parents would draw a line on it to indicate how tall they were growing. Laura had been always the biggest.

The walls had been full of pictures of their family trips to all corners of the US and even beyond. Derek still remembered their last trip, on which he hadn't even wanted to go, because he had wanted to spend the time with Kate instead. It made him want to throw up. You could still see the shape of the picture of all of them standing in front of the Eiffel Tower if you looked closely enough, but the outline was the only thing that was left of it.

The fire had erased it all. Made it like his parents and his sisters had never existed. Derek was the only who one still remembered them and when he would die one day, so would his family for the last time.

Ashes and memories. That was his life now.

 **memory three: ducks and roses**

It was one of these rare days when the sheriff came home to a silent house. Stiles was still out and about and so when he opened the door he wasn't greeted by his flailing and chatting son, but by companionable silence instead. Usually Stiles would greet him with whatever new subject he had taken his fancy now – John still remembered the history of circumcision, much to his dismay – rushing down the stairs and talking so fast that John could barely make out what he was saying. Stiles would also crunch up his face in this adorable way when he noticed that John had eaten something 'unhealthy', instantly lecturing him of the danger of unsaturated fats for his blood pressure.

This kind of greeting had become rarer and rarer over the last few weeks.

It was difficult with Stiles sometimes. John loved his son, he truly did, but he sometimes felt like he didn't have the same connection to him as his wife had had. Maybe it was because they both had developed so differently after her death: John had turned to the bottle and work, drowning his sorrow in other people´s problems and Stiles – well, Stiles had become independent. John regretted how things had turned out, that he was unable to tear down the invisible veil between him and his son that had sprung up after Claudia´s death. He didn't doubt that Stiles loved him and he didn't doubt that Stiles knew that John loved him in return, but even if their relationship was something others envied them of, once upon a time it had been even closer.

But in recent times it had turned worse. John knew that Stiles was keeping something from him, something big with all the sneaking around and appearing at every crime scene in town. He knew that Stiles was lying to him and he knew that Stiles knew. He had given his son so many opportunities to come clean, but Stiles had led them all pass by and so the divide between them had grown wider and wider until there was nothing left to be said between them, an uncomfortable atmosphere surrounding them whenever they spoke to each other.

John walked towards one of the shelves in the living room, filled with cook books and guidebooks, which neither he nor Stiles had ever touched. He pushed them aside and took out the item that he had hidden behind there. He blew some air over its dust covered surface, freeing the red cover of the grey sheen covering it. He turned around, the object still in his hand, and walked towards the couch where he sat down with a heavy sigh.

The photo album was lying on his lap, daring him to open it and let his gaze wander over its content. John let his hands hover over the rough felt binding, but he couldn't quite bring himself to open the book yet. Usually he only did so after at least half a bottle of vodka. John didn't know how much time passed – it could have been only seconds or two hours, but in the silence of his living room it didn't matter – but when he finally opened the album on its first page and read the dedication on it, he couldn't breathe for a short moment.

 _For my two ducklings,_

 _To always remember me by_

 _During the times when you miss me the most._

Claudia had started the album when the first diagnosis of her terminal illness had come in. Page by page, she had put their lives on paper for a time when she wouldn't be with them anymore. The first picture was of a tooth-spaced Stiles smiling in the camera, wearing only his swimming trunks with printed with yellow ducks all over it. Stiles had had this strange obsession with ducks back then, one which had only lessened slightly since then, John was sure. In the picture´s background he could see the wading pool (also with ducks) which they had bought for Stiles' birthday, right next to Claudia´s roses. Oh, she had loved them, breeding all kinds of those flowers in so many colours, their fragrance filling the whole neighbourhood during hot and humid summer days. Stiles was the one who tended to them now every spring, because John couldn't bring himself to do it, not without feeling like his heart was torn apart _("They´re alive," Stile said as she stood in hallway in his gardening gear, "and sometimes they make me feel like she still is as well.")_.

John turned the page and even though he knew the pictures by heart now, had turned the pages a thousand times already, his breath still faltered when he saw his dead wife smile back at him from the page. He let his finger wander over the photo, over the freckles and dimples that were so much like Stiles _(so much that seeing his son had made his heart twinge in pain, making him hate himself even more, hating himself for hating his son´s smile, because his smile was hers)_ , the playful smile, the coy gleam in her brown eyes and her brown eyes that had always looked like Claudia had walked straight through a hurricane.

"You´d know what to do," John mumbled, his fingers tracing the laughing lines on Claudia´s face. "What to say." He sighed. "He´s so much like you; the wit, the sarcasm and the heart that wants to take in everyone and shelter them. He wants to take on the world with the same enthusiasm as you had and I believe that he could. But he´s withdrawn from me and I don't know how to bridge the gulf between us. I need you, Claudia, I really, really do…" He wanted to say more, but he couldn't, the words just wouldn't pass over his lips. It felt like he was suffocating, getting lost in the memories of happier times when his family had been still hole.

Now half of it could only be found on the pictures trapped between these pages.

 **memory four: colonel teddy**

The casket his sister would be burned in was white. No engravings, no golden handles, nothing. Just white wood to symbolise the purity of the person within.

Chris laughed, a hollow and bitter sound. There were many things Kate had been in the end, but pure was definitely not one of them. Once, maybe, but not after what his father had done to her. They would cremate her, like it was the Argent´s tradition as there were too many creatures out there that fed on corpses – ghouls, strigas or skinwalkers, to name only a few. Besides, fire was a purifier and maybe it would cleanse Kate´s soul of some of the evils she had committed in her life, even if Chris doubted it very much. Some atrocities you just couldn't atone for and even in her last moments Kate hadn't regretted what she had done.

Chris wondered, when he had lost his sister to the monster she had become. Had it always lurked behind her sweet smiles and her earnest eyes? Just brought to the surface by someone else, someone who didn't care about little girls whose biggest dream was to win the Pulitzer one day. Or had it been instilled, added to something that had been innocent before.

"It´s not your fault." Chris didn't turn around, didn't lift his hand from the smooth and cold surface of the casket, didn't show any reaction to his wife´s words. He could sense Victoria standing just a few meters behind him, this sixth sense that every hunter had, this spatial awareness without which you couldn't survive their harsh world.

"How would you know?" he asked, his voice subdued, but in the empty chapel it carried over anyway. The lifeless eyes of countless saints and angels were staring down on them and if Chris was of the more superstitious type of person he would have felt like there was some sort of disapproval in their heavy stares, but he wasn't and so he just chalked it up to the cold air. "You weren't there. Neither was I." There was a moment of silence between. A car passed by the church, its light shining through the windows, illuminating the rows of wooden benches, reflecting on the golden decoration before it all fell back into darkness again.

"You should have seen her," Chris continued. "The bloodlust, the crazy gleam in her eyes, the vitriol she spewed. That wasn't my sister, it was a completely different person."

"The job does that sometimes," Victoria remarked. "We´ve both seen it too many times." Chris knew what she meant: There were the hunters that completely let go of their humanity, consumed by the unquenchable desire to kill anything not human, not caring for the Code or actual guild. Most of them had come to know about the supernatural through violence and death, searching for revenge and reparation.

"But you know that I´ve never liked your sister," Victoria added. "I´ve always felt like there was something off with her."

"You told me often enough," Chris replied. "But she wasn't like that her whole life." He looked at the bouquets that were piled up next to the casket, condolences from all prominent hunter clans of Northern America and even some from the Old World. None from acquaintances or friends. She didn't do friends; Kate had once told him. There was only family and everyone else.

Chris kneeled down and rummaged through his bag until he found what he was looking for: A small and worn teddy who was staring at him with only one button eye because the other had gotten lost long ago, a red fly around his neck and all kind of stitches covering his small body.

"Colonel Bear," Chris whispered. He remembered well when he had given it to Kate. He had been twelve, his sister six and ever since their father had let her in on the secrets of their family business _(too early, in Chris' opinion, Kate was still so small and fragile, stills so curious and innocent. The world´s vitiation could wait a few years, but no one would listen to him)_ she had been unable to sleep.

"What if a monster comes for me?" she had asked him, her blue eyes wide open in fear as she clung to the covers of her bed. "What if they wanna eat me?" Their father hadn't been understanding of Kate´s fear.

"She´ll live through it," he had remarked offhandedly when Chris had brought it up. "Argents are steal and steel is forged with fire." So Chris had taken his meagre allowances and bought the teddy, even though it meant that he wouldn't be able to afford the book he desperately coveted, but that hadn't mattered.

"This is Colonel Bear," he had told Kate when she had been about to go to bed. "He visited the Bear Fighting Academy where he learned to fight all kind of monsters that go after little girls and when he finished it, he was given you as his assignment. He´ll never leave you out of his sight and he´ll fight every monster that dares to hide under your bed or in your closet. He´ll keep you safe."

"He will?" Kate had asked unsure as she took the teddy from Chris.

"Hmm. He was the best of his class," Chris had said. Since then Kate never had a night of pitiful sleep ever again. Chris had found the bear in Kate´s belongings when he had gone through them to bring her affairs in order.

It was quite fitting, Chris supposed, that Colonel Bear would follow his charge to wherever she was going now.

Hell, probably.

Chris placed the teddy atop the casket so that he had the church´s entrance in his field of vision, then – with one last glance at the picture of a smiling Kate next to it – he turned around and walked back to Victoria and out of the curch.

Colonel Bear kept guarding Kate.


	4. Mountains From Water

**i. revelation one: strength**

"Where are you going, son?" Stiles turned around to where his dad was sitting at the kitchen table, cup of coffee in one hand and newspaper in the other. He eyed Stiles critically, as if he was about to arrest Stiles if he didn't like what Stiles answer would be.

What did it say about the state of their relationship, that Stiles very well believed that his father would?

"Gonna meet Scott in town," Stiles answered with an easy smile on his lips – at least he hoped that it was. He couldn't remember the last time he had genuinely smiled, without the fear of being murdered _(eaten, torn apart, forgotten)_ lurking behind. He hoped that his father wouldn't notice the difference. Besides, even if he suspected something, Scott would cover for him, like they always did for each other.

Before his father could say anything, Stiles was already out of the house and walking towards Roscoe. The mention of Scott´s name had made something shift in Stiles; a molten mass of guilt churning in his stomach. He hadn't told his best friend that he was now a werewolf as well, an Alpha as well, to top everything. Before _(before werewolves had become reality, before Hunters, before having to chain his best friend lest he would kill Stiles in some bloody haze)_ he would have told Scott everything, would have gone straight to the other´s house, climbed through the window _("A dead body?" "No, a body of water.")_ and told Scott every single detail, while the boy would listen with wide eyes.

But not now. Even though Scott despised becoming a werewolf he had gladly taken all the benefits that came with it and had installed himself in the popular crowd, going after Allison and becoming co-captain of the lacrosse team. Stiles had hung on to him, trying to preserve their friendship – their brotherhood – but Scott had run faster (literally and figuratively) than Stiles could catch up on and somewhere along the way he had been left in the dust.

Stiles knew that it was unfair. Scott hadn't just decided out of malice to leave Stiles behind and get himself some new friends, but neither had he resisted the lure of the popularity that his new powers had brought him. The ordeals they had lived through since Scott´s turning had just changed them and shifted both Scott´s and Stiles' priorities. And they just did no longer align.

Maybe blaming Scott was easier than admitting that people changed.

His mother had changed, too. As had his father. Change only brought loneliness to Stiles.

But Stiles also knew that he had to figure this out for himself before he went to Scott. Scott was great and intelligent when he applied himself, but all too often he let emotions and his morals overrule his common sense and his rational thinking. And if Stiles was honest, he just didn't want to hear another 'Werewolves are evil, woe is me, I want to be human again' spiel with the accompanying pity.

He turned the ignition on, making Roscoe spring to life with a satisfying buzzing and rolled out of their driveway. The way to the preserve didn't take long – by now Stiles knew it by heart – and ten minutes later Roscoe rolled over the gravel driveway that led up to the Hale mansion.

The sun was shining, making the charred remains of the structure looking even blacker than usual, but there was also signs of life amidst the broken-down façade. Flowers that bloomed between the cracks of the floorboards, vines that wound around the now freestanding wood beams and all kinds of rodents hushing from shadow to shadow.

Stiles wondered if they had already devoured what the fire had left of the Hales. Then he shook his head, banishing that morbid thought from his mind.

He didn't call for Derek. The werewolf must have heard him driving up to the house from miles away, but for additional emphasis Stiles slammed Roscoe´s door extra hard, the sound tearing through the silence like a bullet.

"You´re here." Stiles nearly fell over his own feet when he tried to turn around to where the voice was coming from. Derek was standing at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden amidst the foliage and staring at him like he couldn't believe that Stiles had truly come.

"I said I would, didn't I?" Stiles replied, still trying to catch his breath. "Ready to be the werewolf Yoda to my Padawan self?" Derek´s whole face crunched up in an adorable expression of confusion and Stiles had to hold himself back from laughing out loud.

"You haven't seen Star Wars?" Stiles exclaimed. "Dude, where´s your pop culture education?"

"Don´t call me 'Dude'," Derek snapped back. He walked past Stiles without bothering to look back. "Coming?" he called after he had walked around the corner of the house, vanishing from Stiles' field of vision. Stiles ran after him, this time managing to not fall over his own feet.

It was quite surprising that for all the times Stiles and Scott had been at the Hale mansion, they had never been on this side of the house. Maybe because every time they had been here, they had been chased away by someone…or something. There was a big terrace, now slowly being retaken by nature, but Stiles imagined that quite a few barbecues had been thrown there under the open sky. A few meters away there was a set of swings that had turned brown from rust and years of neglect. Every now and then a slight breeze would move them, accompanied with a protesting squeak from the rusty chains. A sandbox was right next to the swing, but the sand had long been replaced by rotten leaves, grass and other plants. The last thing Stiles noticed was a large greenhouse at the edge of the garden. Most of its windows were broken, their shards littering the ground around the house, and those that had survived the fire and the following years of neglect were covered under thick layers of grime and dust.

All in all, it was quite a depressing sight, even more so than the front of the house and Stiles wondered why Derek was still living here.

"Catch!" Derek threw something at him and faster than Stiles' rational part of his brain could understand, he caught what Derek had thrown at him mid-air.

A twig. A fucking twig.

"What am I supposed to do with a twig?" Stiles voiced his scepticism. Derek just raised his eyebrows and for a split-second Stiles thought he saw something akin to amusement flash behind his green eyes.

"It´s an exercise for bitten wolves," Derek started to explain. "It´s rather difficult for them to adjust to their new strength. You hold the twig between your thumb and your forefinger and then you slowly apply more pressure until you think the twig is about to break."

"Well, that´s easy," Stiles boasted. He squeezed…and before he could even blink the twig shattered and he was showered in splinters.

"Is it?" Derek jeered. Stiles glared at him, but it lacked heat, because he had never seen Derek this relaxed; to be honest, though, most of the time he had seen Derek in the past was in life or death situations, so that wasn't that high of a benchmark.

"Next one." Derek threw him another twig. Stiles just sighed.

 **ii. revelation two: loneliness**

"Next time we won´t pay for the car repairs," David told Jackson with a seriousness to his voice that he only used in order to try to assert some form of authority over Jackson. "You should know better than to drive your Porsche over dirt tracks."

"Yes, dad," Jackson replied without any emotion. He only called him 'Dad' because David would make a fuss about it otherwise. He just wanted his keys back and then to go to his room and lock the world out.

With a sigh, David put the keys down on the kitchen counter, obviously having recognised that it was no use to talk to Jackson when he was in a mood. Jackson snatched the keys and then he was making his ways upstairs, deliberately not looking at the pictures showcasing his family (he sneered inwardly) that were hanging along the staircase. It was all lies, anyway.

He locked the door behind him and took in a deep breath. He let the silence of his room wash over him like a soothing blanket. Jackson threw his car keys on his desk and then he just let himself fall back on his bed.

As he stared at the ceiling, Jackson could hear his parents talk faintly downstairs. There may be only a wooden door between them, but there was much more that separated them. He couldn't remember the last time they had talked – real, true words, unmasked, unguarded – or the last time he had sought them out for advice or just reassurances like any child would. Probably before he had learned that he wasn't really their child, but an adopted status symbol instead.

Sometimes, when he and Lydia had fought again and Danny wasn't speaking to him because he had done something 'asshole-ish', Jackson laid there and wished that he could just go to his mother and have her hug him and promise that everything would turn alright. But for that she needed to love him, and that wasn't really the case, was it?

That was why he hated Stilinski and McCall so much: Even though they had neither the money he had, nor the popularity, nor his athletic abilities, they had something that Jackson was denied: The genuine care and affection of their parents – or at least of half of it. Every time Jackson saw the Sheriff striding through the hallways with purpose to his every step because Stilinski had done something again with obvious worry in his eyes or the nurse McCall volunteering at the nurse office with a warm smile on his face, something would churn in Jackson´s stomach and there would be a sour taste on his tongue.

His mother would never volunteer for anything that wouldn't bring some positive publicity and the only time his father would come to school was when he thought Jackson´s grade weren't what he expected from his 'son'.

Jackson had never felt more humiliated like when McCall had suddenly turned out to be quite good at lacrosse and made 'Co-Captain'. Just thinking about the word made hot rage surge through Jackson and for the first few days after it he had been ready to just smash McCall's head against his locker. Repeatedly.

"Don´t act so petulant," Lydia had just chided him while doing her nails. "Physical violence is so plebeian and brutish. You just need to show everyone that you´re still the best."

There was something going on with McCall and Stilinski, of that Jackson was absolutely sure of. Whenever something had happened in the last months it was always those two right in the middle of it.

And then Lydia had gotten hurt and Stilinski had commanded his Porsche. Something was going on and Jackson would find out what, because he would never allow Stilinski and McCall to have something he couldn't have.

They already had enough of it.

 **iii. revelation three: history**

If Derek wasn't so emotionally challenged, he would probably lie on the ground, laughing himself silly at him, Stiles thought as he stared at the forty-second twig with murderous intent. But Derek was Derek, so he just stood there, a few meters besides Stiles and threw him new twigs whenever he managed to shatter another. The ground was littered by the forty-one failed attempts that had come before the current twigs.

With a loud crunch, the twig Stiles was holding broke under his fingers. Stiles let out a frustrated scream and hurtled the two pieces across the clearing. They vanished amidst the trees, but Stiles managed to hear them tearing through the foliage until they landed on the ground.

"I can´t do any more of this," Stiles admitted. "I might go on a rampage through town if I have to see another twig in my entire life." Too late he noticed that this wasn't the most sensitive thing to say to the man whose uncle, who Stiles had also killed, had done the same only a few weeks previously. But Derek gave no sign that he had taken what Stiles had said as insult.

"You weren´t meant to manage it on one day, anyway," Derek told him. "Most of the people I knew were only able to do it after a few days."

"So, I´m not some epic failure on my first day already?" Stiles asked hopefully. Derek just shook his head. "No, Stiles you aren't."

"I´m so relieved to hear that," Stiles replied, clutching his heart in a dramatic gesture.

"Listen," Stiles continued. "Can I ask you a question?" Derek raised an eyebrow.

"What do you wanna know?"

"Where do werewolves come from?" Stiles asked. "There are so many contradictory sources on the internet." Derek looked at him intensely, then he turned around and walked towards the house, obviously expecting Stiles to follow him – what the boy did, not that he had any choice on the matter, not if he wanted some answers.

They made their way towards the kitchen. Stiles imagined that once it must have been a warm and welcoming room, directly connected to the living room. There was a counter right in the middle of the room, big enough to prepare food for a whole army, which was probably a lot like caring for a family consisting of werewolves. Some stools had survived the fire, two on which Derek and Stiles sat down.

"What did you read on the internet?" Derek asked.

"Well," Stiles began, nervously fidgeting with his fingers. "Some sources say that werewolves are the descendants of Romulus and Remus who received their power from the milk they were nursed on as children. Others state that you´re the offspring of unions between Fenrir and mortal women, which is pretty disgusting to think about, to be honest. I mean, he´s supposed to be really big." Stiles shuddered. "The most popular tale, though, is that werewolves are descendants of Lycaon, that Greek king who served Zeus his own son at a feast and was turned into a wolf as punishment."

"You certainly did your research," Derek remarked. "To be honest, amongst us werewolves no one knows either. Each thesis has its followers, which can make some gatherings really bothersome."

"So, they´re like religions for you?" Stiles clarified.

"For _us_ ," Derek corrected him. "You´re one of us now."

"Sorry," Stiles mumbled. "That´ll take some time till I can wrap my head around it." Derek nodded.

"You´re right, for some of us it´s a kind of religion," Derek answered his question. "There are also some werewolves who believe that there´s a scientific explanation for the existence of the supernatural."

"What did your pack believe?" Stiles asked. For a moment, he wondered if he had overstepped some invisible boundary and Derek would throw him out.

"I don't believe in anything," Derek replied after a while. "But my parents believed that we were guardians picked by Gaia herself to protect and nourish the territory that we were given by Her. All the other theories have this theme of lycanthropy as some kind of curse, but my parents never believed that being a werewolf was something to be ashamed of."

"That's a nice outlook," Stiles agreed. For a moment, there was only silence between them as each of them followed their own train of thoughts.

"I should probably head back," Stiles said after a while. "Dad´s gonna get suspicious otherwise." Derek just grunted in agreement as Stiles hopped from the stool and made his way towards the door. On the threshold Stiles turned around and as he saw Derek sitting there in the ruined kitchen, surrounded by nothing but blackened walls and broken down cabinets, he came to a decision.

"What are you gonna do now?" Stiles asked hesitantly.

"What do you mean?" Derek wanted to know.

"You aren't seriously spending your time here?" Stiles waved his hands around to properly bring his point across. "This house is a mausoleum. You have neither electricity nor flowing water and it must get cold at night. Do you even have a bed?" Derek just shrugged.

"Wait, so you´re gonna spend the whole night with cold canned soup and nothing to sleep on?" Stiles asked appalled.

"Not different to all the other nights since I came back," Derek replied with a shrug, oblivious to Stiles growing horror.

"No, that just won´t do," Stiles retorted. "You´re coming with me. Dad´s cooking and knowing him it´s something with a lot of meat, even though he shouldn't eat it at all. There´ll be enough to feed a third person." And then, with strength that he was surprised he had, he took Derek by his arm and dragged him out of the house and towards Roscoe.

Derek didn't resist. Maybe he, too, was sick of living in the ruins of his childhood.

 **iv. revelation four: foe**

The air was hot and moist, filled with wanton moans as the two men on the bed withed on the bed in pleasure. The sweat on their skins glistened underneath the yellow light, their bodies moved to an underlying rhythm, completely at sync as if some unseen puppeteer was stringing them along from above.

Ethan could smell his partner´s arousal that clung to his very skin, could feel his blood pounding underneath his skin, his heart´s erratic beat as he was taken from one high to another. Ethan always liked his partners experienced, annoyed by fumbling and stuttering virgins who didn't know what to do with a cock even when you slapped them with it. But this human obviously knew what he was doing, because Ethan couldn't remember the last time he had fucked someone that good.

"Harder!" the human underneath commanded, raising his ass to meet every of Ethan´s thrusts. Ethan happily obliged, pistoling himself forward until his balls slapped against the other´s thighs. The human (Ethan hadn't bothered to get to know his name, he never did) clenched around his cock, making Ethan´s eyes flash red from the onslaught of sensations.

That was why he always insisted on taking them from behind. Not that many of them complained.

He could feel himself getting closer and closer to completion and from the laboured breath coming from the man underneath him, he wasn't far from it either. Ethan bend down, his chest touching the other man´s back.

"You´re gonna cum only on my say," he whispered in the man´s ear, nibbling at its lobe with his human teeth. The man shuddered underneath him and his breath hitched as he met Ethan for another thrust.

"Now!" The man´s movement sputtered and then he came all over the bedsheet. The sudden clenching of his ass around Ethan´s cock sent the werewolf over the edge as well, emptying himself in the other man.

For a short moment, they held their position, then they both sagged down on the mattress, taking deep breaths as both of them came down from the high of the endorphins that cursed through their bodies. Ethan wasn't one for snuggling and such, but even he could enjoy the atmosphere after an especially successful bout of sex.

Which of course, didn't last that long.

"Get up!" The door banged open and Aiden barged through it, throwing pants and t-shirt at Ethan.

"Fuck off!" Ethan snarled at his brother, not bothering to catch the clothes he had thrown at him.

"There´s two of you?" the human asked, not bothering to cover himself, grinning at Ethan. "He´s up for some fun, too?"

"Deuc´s calling," Aiden told Ethan, ignoring what the human had said. "I´ll wait outside." Ethan sighed, but then he sat up and began to put on his clothes.

"Your sugar daddy calling?" the human asked from where he was lying on the bed. Ethan snorted. Deucalion was many things but certainly not that.

He stood up and without bothering to look back, he left the room and walked along the hallway until he exited the building in front of which Aiden was already waiting for him, sitting on his motorcycle. His brother held his helmet up to him. Ethan snatched it out of his hand and went over to his own bike and soon after both of them were racing over the desolated streets of the non-descript town they were currently living in.

Deucalion was living in an upscale part of the town – which was really just three streets where the houses had three stories instead of two and a pool in their gardens – because the leader of the Alpha Pack required certain luxuries. Ethan didn't know (and didn't care) where Kali and Ennis were staying, but they were probably already there.

He was proven right when the first thing he saw after they entered the house was Kali standing there, without shoes, her blackened nails scratching over the expensive parquet. Ennis was lurking near her, his statue as imposing as always.

Yet, Ethan thought, his fellow Alpha was nothing against Deucalion. The blind Alpha was sitting on the couch, sipping on some cup of tea, his cane leaning against the sofa right next to him. Out of all of them he looked the most harmless, yet there was something intangible about him that made Ethan´s wolf raise its hackles and trying to back out. It was like an aura of malice that hung around the blind Alpha, the unspoken threat of something horrible happening to you if you didn't follow his orders. Ethan knew that his brother was feeling the same, even though they had never talked about it _(Blindness strengthened your remaining sentences, after all and who knew when Deucalion was listening in on them)_.

Sometimes Ethan wondered why they were still staying with Deucalion when he felt so unnatural and made all their instincts scream at them to flee, but then Ethan remembered that they had no one else. Deucalion had been the one who had saved them from their old pack where they had been nothing but punching bags for everyone else.

They owed him to stay with him. At least that was what Ethan told himself when Deucalion was in one of his moods again and he wasn't sure if he would come out of their encounter unscathed.

"You are here," Deucalion greeted them, angling his head to the side as if he was trying to listen to something. Ethan knew that it was all show, though: Deucalion could trace you even while he sat there, unmoving like a statue cut from marble. "Now we can finally start." Ethan was glad that no one commented on the obvious smell of sex that must still cling to him. He wouldn't have heard the end of it.

"What´s this about, Deuc?" Kali asked, wrapping her arm around Ennis' shoulder. "Got us some new Alpha to go after?" Again, Ethan was glad that he had learned long ago to supress showing any kind of emotional reaction to the wolves around them. No hitching breath, not spike in his heartbeat, no sweat. You had needed it in order to survive their old pack. And this one. Because no way he could show the disgust and fear he felt towards Kali. Her glee at the thought of eradicating another pack, of taking another Alpha´s powers. Ethan knew that he and Aiden were guilty of the same crimes as she, but at least they didn't do it for enjoyment like Kali did. Both Aiden and he knew how it felt to be weak and the day Deucalion had freed them, they had promised themselves to never be that weak again.

Sometimes Ethan even believed what he was telling himself.

"Yes, I have," Deucalion replied evenly. "It seems that after years of abandonment, a new Alpha has taken the territory of Beacon Hills." He grinned, the first show of emotions since Ethan and his brother had entered the room. "Let´s test if he´s though enough for the job."

His grin turned more savage and somehow Ethan had this feeling that this was about more than just swooping in and taking some new Alpha´s power. Looking at Deucalion, he imagined that it must be more personal to the Alpha than he let on.

Ethan wasn't here to think, though. So, to Beacon Hills it was now.


	5. Homecoming

**AN:** I´m back from the dead! University really kicked my ass, but as kind of apology this chapter is over twice as long as my usual chapter length! Also, I´m reading all of your reviews and am so happy about every single one I receive.

* * *

 **i. feeling one: trepidation**

The ride back to Stiles' house was only a little bit awkward. Unlike his usual self, Stiles didn't try to fill the silence with inane chatter. That was mainly because inwardly he was totally flipping out: Inviting Derek had been a spur of the moment thing, because seeing the older man standing in the ruin of his childhood home, totally alone and forgotten, had pulled a string in Stiles and without thinking he had blurred out the invitation. But now, as they were driving home, Stiles had to think about how he would sell this to his father.

As far as the Sheriff was aware, Derek was the guy his own son and his best friend had accused of murder, only for him to turn out innocent in the end. Not really what you thought of when you had 'start of a beautiful friendship' in mind. So, how should Stiles explain to him that he had invited said former murder suspect home for dinner?

Not that Stiles regretted it, that wasn't it. Even though there was enough reason for there to be bad blood between them – starting with the aforementioned murder accusation to the fact that Stiles had killed Derek´s uncle and usurped his family´s power – Derek had helped him with his newfound werewolfdom (not really a word, but it sounded cool in Stiles' head). Hell, even before the big showdown, Derek had tried to help them, only that Derek´s lack of communication abilities and Stiles' and Scott's mistrust had prevented any of this to come to fruition.

Stiles didn't say it out loud (he liked his head where it was, after all) but underneath Derek´s grumpy and abrasive behaviour there must still be the lonely boy who had lost his whole family at sixteen. Stiles knew the pain of losing a loved one, so he couldn't just turn his back on another person suffering the same fate as him.

Maybe it would be awkward with his father, but the short glimmer of hope that had flashed through Derek´s eyes when Stiles had spoken the words was well worth it.

Definitely.

"I hope you like meat," Stiles babbled. "Because when I allow my dad to cook he uses a lot of it."

"I´m a werewolf," Derek scoffed. "Of course I eat meat."

"Don´t know," Stiles shrugged. "You could be a vegetarian werewolf. Wouldn't be the weirdest thing after vegetarian vampires." Of course, the Twilight reference flew straight over Derek´s head. What else had Stiles expected?

"Why did you say 'allow'?" Derek asked. "Isn´t your father the one to cook?"

"No," Stiles replied. "He´s working a lot and gets called to crime scenes very often, so it´s either take-out or me cooking. I´ve built up quite the varied palette." It was easier to blame his father´s working hours for Stiles' culinary skills instead of the fact that after his mother´s death, his father had been such a wreck that Stiles would have starved if he hadn´t learned to cook for himself. At first it had been take-out and badly burnt mac'n'cheese, but after a lot of trial and error, Stiles had managed to provide for himself. And when his father had managed to pull himself out of the bottle, it had already become normal for Stiles to cook and it had stayed that way until today. "You should see my mouse au chocolate. It´s literally to die for." By now they had made it halfway to Stiles' home. "I don´t make it very often, though, because it´s got too much sugar and fat. Not good for the heart, you know?"

"I don´t think you´re old enough to worry about the condition of your heart," Derek pointed out. "And anyway, it´s a moot point now."

"Not my heart," Stiles replied. "My dad´s. I have to look out for his cholesterol." Derek didn't reply anything to that, so they spent the rest of the drive in amicable silence – which was very difficult for Stiles, but he didn't want to scare Derek away before they had even started.

When they had reached Stiles' home, he powered down Roscoe´s engine and turned towards Derek: "You better stay here until I tell my dad that you´re gonna eat with us, lest he shoots you or something." And before Derek could even reply, Stiles was already out of the car and walking towards the front door.

His father was in the kitchen, readying whatever he had prepared for the evening´s meal.

"Heyah, father dearest," Stiles exclaimed and he could already see his father´s suspicion, because Stiles was never so cheerful if he didn't want something.

"Hello, Stiles," his father replied more reserved, probably steeling himself for whatever Stiles would spring upon him, what, to be honest, was a totally reasonable thing to do.

"You remember Derek Hale?" Stiles began. "The guy Scott and I accused of murder? Wrongly, as it turned out." His father just nodded. "Well, I met him today and invited him for dinner, as kind of apology for getting him thrown into a cell for a night." It spoke of the volume of Stiles' antics up to this day that the only thing this announcement managed was to make his father let out a resigned sign.

"Of course, you did," the Sheriff sighed.

"He´s got no one here," Stiles told his father, nearly whispering, fearing that Derek would hear him even from outside. "He could use a few friendly faces." He could see his father´s expression softening.

"Then bring him in." Stiles practically jumped out of the house and even though he didn't want to admit it, he was a little bit surprised that Derek was still in the car and had not taken off.

"Come on!" Stiles exclaimed, pulling the door. "Food´s awaiting."

He pulled Derek into the house, where his father was already waiting. What ensued now was some kind of western stand-off where both the Sheriff and Derek were standing only a few meters apart, appraising each other, neither making a move. Stiles' father appeared to be calm and collected while Stiles could hear Derek´s heart beat like crazy. But just when the tension seemed to become unbearable, his father cracked a smile.

"I hope you like meatloaf, son," he said and patted Derek on the back. "Because I cooked way too much."

"You always do," Stiles remarked as his father led Derek towards the table. "And Melissa is always happy to get Tupperware full of it."

"Don´t sass me like that or you won´t get anything to eat," his father mock-threatened. Stiles clutched his heart as if he had been shot.

"Oh, how dare you!" he exclaimed high-pitched. "You would buy yourself my compliance with the thread of starvation?" A short glance to Derek showed him that the werewolf was avidly watching the verbal sparring match while simultaneously doing nothing that could get him pulled into it.

"I´ll use everything I have against you," the Sheriff replied. "And every jury in this country would side with me. Now, why don´t you help me set the table?"

"I could help," Derek offered timidly.

"No," the Sheriff declined. "You´re a guest here and guests don´t set the table."

"Scott does," Stiles mumbled but a dark glower from his dad sent him going.

 **ii. feeling two: (be)longing**

Derek didn't say much during dinner. The food was good, way better than what he had over the last few days and definitely better than anything he or Laura could have made. Cooking had never been a talent either of them had inherited from their parents. Instead he was content to just watch the Stilinskis in their natural habitat.

There was a certain easiness surrounding them, one you could only find in families that went through much together and knew that they could rely on each other. The Sheriff may roll his eyes at Stiles and may take some of the things Stiles said or did not seriously, but underneath it all was fondness and love that showed itself in every gesture and every gaze. They moved like a well-oiled machine, the comebacks and snarky banter coming automatically without much thought. Maybe there dynamic was a little bit off the norm – with Stiles looking more after his father than the other way around – but which family acted like they came straight out of a picturesque 50ies advert?

Derek´s family had been like that, too. Sometimes his parents had been so in sync that it was difficult to spot where one began and the other ended. They had known every flaw, every quirk, every weird habit of the other and had loved them even more for it. When Derek had looked at his parents when he was younger he had seen what he wanted to have eventually as well. He had looked at them and had seen love so unconditionally that for his young mind it had seemed as if there was no force in this universe that could tear his parents apart _(only that he had done it)_.

And they had always made sure that Derek and his sisters knew that they, too, were loved so much. Derek had been a late-bloomer and for some time it had even been doubtful if he was a werewolf at all, for he had never shown any outward sign of it, but even then, when self-doubt and self-deprecation tore at his mind, he had always known that his parents loved him.

But it hadn't been only his parents: Even though Laura was quite a few years older than him and even though they didn't have much in common (Laura was the fire to Derek´s ice, the extrovert to his shyness) she always had had his back. Hell, she beat up the kids who bullied him for his big front teeth and even when her parents had practically grounded her and taken away all her privileges, she hadn't bowed down, had outright refused to apologise.

Well, she did apologise to Derek later, for not having done something earlier.

And then there was Cora, the fiercest of them all, with fire in every step and a tongue so sharp that it even put Uncle Peter in his place. Out of all of his family members, Derek had been the closest to his little sister. Very fast he had been dissuaded from the notion that she needed protection, because Cora didn't need protection from anyone or anything, and once that had been cleared up, Cora had been the best friend once could have wished for.

Looking at the Stilinskis, Derek was reminded of all the things he once had had and it sent a pang of longing through his heart, so heavy that he felt like he was drowning.

"Say, Derek," the Sheriff turned to him and under his gaze Derek felt like fifteen again, when his own dad had caught him and Paige kissing in the summer house. "Now that you´ve been cleared, what are your plans?" Stiles tried to feign disinterest by playing with his food, but Derek had caught him straightening his posture; an all too human gesture to better listen in.

"Before…before coming back I studied architecture at Columbia," Derek began and by now Stiles couldn't hide his obvious curiosity. "I´m only missing a few credits for my degree. I thought, that maybe I could finish here at the community college and then…I really don't know." The Sheriff looked at him with approval and even though Derek barely knew the man, it somehow lifted a weight off his chest. It wasn't even a lie; Derek really did plan to continue his studies, but until the Sheriff had asked it had been in the realm of 'somewhere in the distant future', but now that he was staying here anyway, he could as well finish with his degree and make something out of himself.

"If you plan on living here, where are you staying then?" came the next question.

"Ehm, I´m still looking," Derek replied. "I´m currently living at the motel next to the Interstate." No matter what Stiles thought and what Derek had implied, he didn't really live in the burnt down husk of his former home. He spent much of his time there, walking its hallways, because like an addict he needed the pain, didn't know how to live – _couldn't live_ – without it constantly squeezing on his mind. It was the only place where the memories of his family were still alive, where he could still hear their laughter, feel their presence, even though they would never return to him.

Derek was the only ghost stalking the house. Everyone else had already moved on.

"Oh my god, we can totally go apartment hunting!" Stiles suddenly exclaimed. "Like, I want to see what Beacon Hills got to offer for the rich and beautiful. I don't think you´re much of a homely kind of guy. Industrial loft would be the right thing for you, sleek and modern, with a lot of chrome and straight lines. Nothing playful, nothing fancy. Bragging through understatement."

"Well, you´re on your own, son," the Sheriff smirked.

Derek, though, was saved from actually answering by the phone ringing.

"Excuse me." The Sheriff stood up and walked to the kitchen. Neither Derek nor Stiles talked as they both wanted to listen in to the call.

' _Sorry to call you, Sheriff, but we´ve got a call from the hospital,_ ' the deputy on the other end of the line said. _'Lydia Martin has vanished.'_ Stiles sucked in a deep breath.

"What do you mean 'vanished'?" the Sheriff demanded to know.

' _I´m just telling you what they told me,'_ was the reply. _'The nurse went to her room to look after her only to find it empty. Guess is that she woke up, disoriented by the drugs and walked out or something.'_

"Call everyone in," the Sheriff instructed. "We have a weak and vulnerable girl on the street, heaven knows who´s gonna take advantage of her if we don't find her first." Then he hung up.

When the Sheriff came back, his face was set in an expression of utter seriousness.

"The hospital called," he told them. "Lydia has vanished."

 **iii. feeling three: confusion**

There were voices in her head.

Lydia didn't know what they were saying; couldn't quite make out the words, but the faint whispering echoed through her mind, made her unable to sleep or to find peace as she stared at the white ceiling of the hospital room she was in. The door was closed, but she could still hear the nurses and patients talking, shouting and crying outside while her room itself was suffused in silence. The monitors beside her bed beeped rhythmically, lines jumping up and down on the screen.

Lydia knew that she couldn't stay here. The voices were urging her to leave, to go where they wanted her to be and even though Lydia didn't understand what they were saying, she knew somehow that she had to follow them. She couldn't say why, couldn't give a single reason, but amidst all the upheaval and uncertainty that had invaded her life in recent times, this was one thing she was sure of.

She was well aware that she shouldn't just pull the IV out of her skin (she had even written a whole paper about Hollywood´s unrealistic portrayal of medical procedures), but it was something that prevented her from following the voices, so it had to go. Luckily, she was wearing a hospital gown, because Lydia wasn't sure if she would have taken the time to put something on.

She opened the door and walked down the hallway, evading other patients and nurses alike who didn't even bother stopping her, too busy with other issues. All the sounds around her were muffled somehow, as if she was wrapped in cotton.

She didn't know where she was going, only that the voices urged her to go on and so she did. Through the entrance door, Lydia walked the streets of the town she had lived in since her childhood and yet no one noticed her, the girl with the strawberry blonde hair and the hospital gown walking barefoot through the streets. There was no hesitation in her steps, no misstep. She could feel it tug at her navel, this need to be at the place to which the voices were leading her. Everything around her blurred and when it sharpened again, she found herself standing in an abandoned hallway of her school. Blue moonlight streamed through the windows, while an aura of solitude and loneliness hung all over the hallway. Not a single sign of movement – of life – and Lydia wondered why the voices had brought her here.

Then, suddenly, like ghosts, figures rose from the ground, glowing in eerie blue, at first unrecognisable, but slowly Lydia could make out features on the figures' faces. She gasped as she recognised herself and Stiles Stilinski, grasping each other as they slowly backed away from something. There was panic on both of their faces as they looked at the other end of the hallway. Slowly, Lydia turned around in order to see what had both of these apparitions so afraid. There, only a few meters away from them, a doubleganger of Stilinski stood, his face a mask of furry and hate so fierce that Lydia involuntarily took a few steps back in order to put more distance between herself and the figure.

She nearly screamed when they suddenly started to move.

' _Divine move!'_ the doppelganger screamed, voice full of hate and scorn. _'Divine move. You think you have any moves at all? You can kill the Oni. But me? Me? I'm a thousand years old. You can't kill me!'_

' _But we can change you,'_ the ghost-Lydia spoke, much more confident than she looked.

' _What?'_ the doppelganger asked confused, stopping his advance for the moment.

' _You forgot about the scroll. The Shugendo scroll,'_ Stiles replied. _'Change the host. You can't be a fox and a wolf.'_ When he finished speaking, Scott McCall suddenly appeared from behind and bit – _bit!_ – the doppelganger Stiles who let out a scream so high-pitched that it felt to Lydia as if her brain was exploding. She sank to the ground, head clutched between her hands and just prayed for everything to end. Just when she believed that she couldn't endure it anymore, the apparitions exploded in a shower of blue sparks. The scream abated and again the hallway laid in front of her just as abandoned as it had been before.

Still shaking, Lydia pulled herself from the ground, looking around for any sights of the ghosts' return, but only silence greeted her. Yet, Lydia knew that this wasn't the end: The voices were back and they wanted her to move on, and so she did.

They took her out of downtown, away from hospital, school and police station until she found herself standing in an empty and abandoned storehouse. Dust clung to every surface while the moon shone through the shattered remains of the windows and dipped everything into its blue light.

Like before in the hallway of the school, ghostly figures rose from the ground, this time more than before, who remained where they came into existence, unmoving and undead. Standing on the side was Scott McCall, next to him Allison´s father – Chris, Lydia thought. Lying on the ground were the Lahey boy and an older man, Lydia recognising him as Derek Hale from the town gossip. What made her cover her mouth in horror was the lizard-like creature in the middle of the set-up that held Allison up by the throat while an old man Lydia couldn't recognise stood next to it, grinning manically. Like in bad movies, the figures flickered every once in a while, and then they started to move.

' _It was the night outside the hospital, wasn't it,'_ the old man spoke, _'when I threatened your mother. I knew I saw something in your eyes. You could just smell it, couldn't you?'_

' _He's dying,'_ the ghost-Isaac whispered in understanding.

' _I am.'_ The man confirmed. _'I have been for a while now. Unfortunately, science doesn't have a cure for cancer yet. But the supernatural does.'_

' _You monster!'_ Allison´s dad shouted in disgust.

' _Not yet,'_ the old man jeered. He made a hand gesture towards the lizard monster, which continued to tighten its grip around Allison's throat.

' _What are you doing?'_ she screamed in panic.

' _You'll kill her too?_ ' Chris Argent asked and even though he was barely visible, Lydia could make out the fear and the horror in his eyes as he watched the old man slowly squeezing the life out of his daughter.

' _When it comes to survival, I'd kill my own son!'_ the man hissed. He beckoned to McCall who moved forward to Hale, who was still lying on the ground.

' _Scott, don't,'_ he pleaded with the teen. _'You know that he's gonna kill me right after. He'll be an Alpha.'_

' _That's true,'_ the old man shrugged. _'But I think he already knows that, don't you, Scott? He knows that the ultimate prize is Allison. Do this small task for me, and they can be together. You are the only piece that doesn't fit, Derek. And in case you haven't learned yet, there is just no competing with young love.'_

' _Scott, don't! Don't!'_ Derek shouted. Lydia´s heart nearly broke at the betrayal and hurt in the man´s voice and even though she didn't know what was going on, she cursed McCall for inflicting such on another human being. McCall hauled Hale up and pulled him towards the older man who looked at Hale with a sick sort of glee that made Lydia want to throw up. As if he was handling an animal, McCall forced Hale´s mouth open.

' _I'm sorry.'_ It was a lie, Lydia could feel it. _'But I have to.'_

The old man kneeled down next to the still unmoving man and stretched out his arm. Before Lydia could understand what was happening, he impaled himself on Hale´s teeth. Then, removing his arm from the other´s mouth, he stood up again and held his bleeding arm up in some sick show of triumph. Lydia wanted to turn around and flee, but something held her in place and didn't allow her to avert her gaze from the scene in front of her. Like a movie, it played out in front of her and there was nothing she could do but watch.

' _What? What is this? What did you do?'_ the old man roared. Lydia couldn't see what was wrong, everything was only in shades of blue, but the man had started to bleed from his eyes and nose; a grotesque caricature of a monster.

' _Everyone said Gerard always had a plan. I had a plan too,'_ McCall announced.

' _No! No!'_ the old man shouted in denial.

' _You dropped this.'_ McCall pulled something out of his pants and displayed it on the palm of his hand: Pills, quite a few of them. He tilted his hand sideward and let the pills fall to the ground: Mid-air they suddenly turned into ash, slowly carried away by the slight breeze that blew through the compound.

' _Mountain ash!'_ the old man howled.

' _Why didn't you tell me?'_ Hale asked, his voice so full of betrayal and hurt that it sent a twinge through Lydia´s heart. The man looked completely devastated, devoid of anything but pain and yet McCall didn't seem to notice.

' _Because you might be an Alpha, but you're not mine,'_ he replied and there was venom in his voice that Lydia hadn't though the gentle and kind McCall capable of.

' _Kill them! Kill them all!'_ the old man screamed in rage, crawling on the ground, face contorted into a mask of furry and agony. The lizard let Allison fall to the ground and began to advance towards McCall when all of a sudden the wall behind it exploded into a shower or debris. Even though she knew it wasn't real, Lydia covered her face for protection. When she looked up again, she saw Stilinski´s jeep halfway stuck in the wall, the lizard sprayed in front of it.

' _Did I get him?'_ Stilinski shouted from where he was sitting on the driver´s seat. _'Whoa!'_ The door on the passenger side opened and another version of Lydia jumped out of the car, looking distraught and immediately making a b-line for the lizard which was pulling itself from the ground by now.

' _Jackson! Jackson!'_ The ghost-Lydia held something in her hand, a pendant of a sort, which she held in front of her like a protective shield. The lizard pounced at her, but when he saw the pendant, he paused as if he had come under a spell. It looked at the pendant as if it knew it, as if it remembered it of something and carefully the ghost-Lydia took step after step towards the monster until she stood in front of it, clutching the pendant like a lifeline.

It was a key, Lydia noticed. Slowly, ghost-Lydia lowered the key onto the lizard´s clawed hand. The monster looked at her and its gaze was full of love and adoration that Lydia hadn't though the thing capable of. It grew smaller, its scales began to fade away and its tail began to vanish: Out of the skin of the monster, a human rose. And Lydia knew that human, knew him intimately: It was Jackson.

Then Hale suddenly appeared behind Jackson and rammed his clawed hand in Jackson´s back.

Both Lydia´s screamed.

She ran towards the place where Jackson laid, but even as she ran the scene already began to dissolve like the one before, exploding into millions of blue sparks, so when Lydia finally reached her boyfriend there was nothing but emptiness again.

And relentlessly the voices drove her on. She just wanted it to end, wanted them to leave her alone, but they kept her going, kept forcing her to walk on, even though Lydia had lost all sense of orientation by now. She just trudged forward through the maze of streets and back alleys, many of which Lydia didn't even know of until now.

By now Lydia expected the apparitions to rise from the ground. This time it was Allison and McCall surrounded by hooded figures, their only recognisable features masks of grotesque expressions. For a few moments all of them were caught in the moment, but then they started moving.

Allison turned around. Lydia could hear a scream. Then the hooded figure ran its sword right through Allison´s stomach. For a short moment, time stopped and nothing happened. Allison looked down on the sword protruding from her body, while the vast emptiness behind the mask stared back. Then it pulled its sword back and like a puppet which strings had been cut, Allison fell to the ground.

' _Allison!'_ McCall and Lydia screamed simultaneously. _'Allison!'_ McCall scoped her up from the ground and cradled his girlfriend in his arms, his face contorted in grief and pain. Lydia kneeled next to him, tried to touch Allison, but her hand went straight through her best friend´s silhouette.

' _Did you find her? Is she okay? Is Lydia safe?'_ Allison asked, coughing up blood.

' _She's okay,'_ McCall told her. _'I can't. I can't take your pain.'_

' _It's because it doesn't hurt,'_ Allison whispered. She tried to lift her arm, tried to cup McCall´s cheek with it in order to reassure him, but she didn't have the strength anymore.

' _No!'_ McCall sobbed.

' _It's okay,'_ Allison whispered, her peaceful expression a stark contrast to the blood that was slowly soaking her clothes and seeping on the ground. _'It's perfect. I'm in the arms of my first love. The first person I ever loved. The person I'll always love. I love you. Scott. Scott McCall.'_ By now tears were freely flowing down Lydia´s face, falling to the ground and shattering like precious glass. She didn't know what this moment was – or _when_ – but it was undeniable precious and important.

' _Don't, please, don't,'_ McCall cried. _'Allison don't, please.'_

' _You have to tell my dad. Tell him...'_ Lydia never got to know what Allison wanted Scott to tell her father because she was never able to finish the sentence. One last time she coughed up blood and then the light in her eyes left her, her gaze becoming vacant. Again, Lydia wanted to reach out, but underneath her fingertips the scene dissolved and she found herself alone in the back alley, the voices pressuring her to leave.

Imagines flashed before her eyes: Doppelganger Stiles advancing towards her, opening his mouth only to release a swarm of fireflies. Jackson standing in front of her, smiling as his shirt was soaked in blood. Allison lying on the ground in a pool of blood, coughing and wheezing as she took her last breaths. A man wearing a doctor´s overall hovering over her with a drill in his right hand. A man with a third eye on his forehead. Derek Hale lying in some kind of sarcophagus. Three people wearing masks, flickering in and out of her field of vision, tubes and wires covering their whole bodies. Figures on horses, without faces, whips in their hands as they rampaged through Beacon Hills and took its inhabitants with them.

The scenes could have passed her by within seconds or hours, Lydia wouldn't know. Time had lost its meaning as had space. There was only the voices and the visions; when one ended the other began and there was no escaping it. She turned around and around and around, but wherever she looked she only saw people dying, monster spawning from the ground, blood and gore.

Lydia sank to the ground. She covered her ears with her hands, closed her eyes and then…

… _she screamed._ And like glass the illusions shattered, the monsters went away and the people stopped dying. When Lydia opened her eyes again she was surrounded by trees. Above her she could see the moon in all of its glory and the stars surrounding it. Wind wafted through her hair, tousling it and carrying with it the smell of pines and grass. And in front of her stood a house.

She knew the building. Every citizen of Beacon Hills knew or knew of the burnt-out Hale house and the people that had found their death within its wall as it had burned down around them. Personally, Lydia had never been there as she found the dares which entailed going near the house that her peers always engaged in especially tasteless. As she looked upon the ruin, she couldn't help but feel the hostility that oozed from the house. Everything felt tainted, blackened by the tragedy that had occurred here.

But the house wasn't the only thing waiting in front of her. A lone figure stood on the front porch, surrounded by black smoke that curled around it like it was a living thing. Red eyes shone from within the smoke, full of malice and glee. The figure lifted its hand.

" _Come to me, Lydia!"_

 **iv. feeling four: worry**

They managed to get to the hospital after the Sheriff and his deputies had already left. It smelled horrible, the stench of disinfectant hurting his nose and the lingering aroma of blood and pus making Stiles want to vomit. Then there were the sounds: Doctors and nurses giving orders, the beeping of machinery, the crying of children, the rattling and coughing of sick patients. It made Stiles head hurt and he had to pause for a moment, just to centre himself. He wrangled with the instinct to just run away and leave this misery behind. This wasn't natural. He didn't belong.

"Concentrate," Derek said next to him, barely above a whisper, but Stiles could hear it anyway. Persuading Derek that they needed to come here had been difficult, but Stiles had managed it by pointing out that Lydia had been bitten by Peter and that they could very well have a newly-turned werewolf running around in Beacon Hills and the last thing they needed now was for Stiles' father to find her. Derek had relented, albeit grudgingly. "We need to get to her room. From there we can follow her trail."

"It´s on the first floor," Stiles replied, having already visited Lydia once before. It spoke volumes to the flurry of activities around them that not a single hospital employee noticed them and demanded to know what they were doing here. Not that Stiles was not glad for it, but it also spoke volumes of the non-existent security protocol. If he had more malevolent motives, Stiles could have done so much bad without anyone noticing. And it was just _one_ person that was missing!

The ping of the elevator notified them that they had reached first floor. There was notably less going on here than on the ground floor; you could even believe that it was a complete different world you had entered. The only nurse visible on the floor was hidden behind the computer screen, probably playing Farmville, while a lone old woman was walking along the hallway, stopping every now and then, wincing in pain, only to continue walking again. An empty bed stood on the right side of the hallway, right next to the elevator doors.

Determined, Stiles walked on, Derek following behind him. The door to the room where Lydia had been in was barred by police tape. Stiles ignored it – perks of being the Sheriff's son in a small town – and opened the door, beckoning for Derek to follow him.

The room was dead silent. No kidding, it felt like Stiles was standing in a graveyard and it made the hairs on the back of his hands stand up. Somehow, one window was open, the curtains drifting back and forth. The bed was unmade, probably having been left exactly like Lydia had left it.

"So," Stiles began, turning back towards Derek, "what now?"

"Now you search for her scent and follow it," Derek replied.

"Great!" Stiles exclaimed sarcastically. "Any more helpful tips? Like, you know, actual tips how that works exactly?" Derek was too controlled to allow himself to slip, but Stiles bet that the older werewolf was desperate to just roll his eyes at Stiles.

"You already know her scent," Derek began to explain. "Even though human noses are weaker than ours, you´ve been around her often enough that you subconsciously know how she smells. Just concentrate, take in a deep breath and let your instincts guide you." Stiles wanted to remark something sarcastic, but time was ticking and while Derek´s teachings left some accuracy to be desired, they were still helpful.

So, Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could smell the cheap laundry detergent the hospital used, the still lingering smell of vanilla pudding and peas (a disgusting combination, probably part of the last meal Lydia had), a few stray scents that the wind had brought in from outside.

But then his mind grasped something that definitely belonged to Lydia: Chanel No. 5. And once he had identified that one particular part of Lydia´s scent, it was easy to grasp the rest of it; the underlying smell of the shampoo she used (strawberry), the chemical scent of her cosmetics.

Stiles opened his eyes. "I have it."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Derek challenged him. Stiles shot him a grin and then he took off. Now that he knew what to look – or rather smell – for, it was easy to follow the trail. Like a glowing line on the ground, he followed the path Lydia had walked on. It led them out of the hospital towards the school. Why Lydia had come here, Stiles couldn't fathom, but she had stayed here only short anyway, continuing her way towards an abandoned factory building at the edge of downtown and then again, a back alley near school.

"What was she doing here?" Stiles asked no one in particular.

Derek just shrugged and then they were already moving again, this time towards the Preserve. It was as if Lydia knew exactly where she was going, for her path cut straight through the forest.

"It´s leading to your house," Stiles finally noticed. Derek didn't say anything. They entered the clearing atop which the Hale house stood. Nothing indicated that a fight had happened here a few days before, but the door that laid on the ground a few meters away from its frame, where Peter had thrown it out of its hinges.

"What happened with…with the Alpha?" Stiles asked. He called the monster 'Alpha' on purpose, for it dehumanized the being that had once been Derek´s uncle and maybe then the pain any mention of him would inflict on Derek wouldn't be as vast.

"I buried him under the house," Derek replied. "It´s what he´d have wanted. To be with the family." Stiles swallowed. Of course, the house had burned down with the Hales still in it, so they all never received a proper burial.

He didn't know what a werewolf burial would be like.

"She´s in there," Derek interrupted his train of thought. They made their way up the stairs on the veranda and then entered the house. Stiles had never in the house, even though it had stood there for a big part of his life, but it had always felt sacrilegious to him to profane a place where so many people had died by using it as some kind of prop for his and Scott make-beliefs. Somehow, it was town´s consensus that the Hale mansion should be left alone and with it the ghosts of the Hales that still haunted it.

The entrance area they entered was dominated by a big staircase that led up to the first floor of the building. To the left was a wide opening that led to what Stiles assumed had to be the living room, while a door on the right led to the kitchen. At the end of the hallway another door led to the backyard which Stiles could see through the shattered glass that had once been a central feature of said door. Lydia´s scent hung heavy in the air now, a sure sign that she was in there somewhere.

There was no need to search for long, though: Kneeling on the ground, hair dishevelled, dried tears on her face and only wearing a hospital gown, they found her, not moving and staring listlessly at the wall in front of her.

"Lydia!" Stiles exclaimed and rushed towards her. Her skin was so cold under his fingertips. She didn't respond. "Lydia." He tried again, but there was no reply.

"We need to get her out of here," Stiles said, turning back to Derek. "We need to get her back to the hospital before my Dad gets here."

"Then pick her up and let´s go," Derek replied.

"Ehm, I´m 147 pounds of skinny bones and sarcasm, how the hell am I to carry her all the way back?" Derek starred at him like Stiles had completely lost his mind.

"You´re a werewolf," he pointed out and his voice had this world-weary resignation to it which only prolonged exposure to Stiles could inflict upon people.

"Ah, yeah," Stiles replied embarrassed. "That should do it." He grabbed Lydia, trying very hard not to grope her at unappropriated places (which was really difficult when the person you needed to carry didn't react at all), but finally he thought he could lift her from the ground.

But when he tried to move Lydia, she let out an ear-piercing wail. Derek and Stiles stumbled back, clutching their heads with their hands as Lydia´s scream drilled through their skull. Everything else was drowned out, pushed back, and there was only the pain that wrecked through Stiles mind like nothing else he had ever felt before. There was something warm flowing over his hand and when he moved it in front of his face he saw that it was covered in blood. He was bleeding from his ears and when Stiles looked back to Derek, he saw that the other werewolf was bleeding as well.

But just as it seemed that Stiles couldn't take the pain anymore, Lydia´s wailing crescendo suddenly abated and the girl sank to the ground, unconscious.

"What the fuck was that?" Stiles spit out. He could taste blood on his tongue.

"I don't know," Derek admitted. "But she´s definitely no werewolf."

"Yeah, but neither is she human," Stiles retorted. Carefully, he walked towards Lydia, but the girl didn't rouse, so he picked her up, this time without screaming.

"Let´s take her back."


	6. Mercy In Darkness

**i. location one** **: the hospital**

They must have made quite a picture: Stiles carrying Lydia bridal-style, striding through the sliding doors of the hospital, the girl limp in his arms, his face pale and blotchy (they had managed to clean the blood off with some tissue Stiles had found in his car), Derek following behind him, not looking any less imposing with his gloomy stare that he directed at anyone who wanted to block their way. They probably looked like they had come straight out of a horror movie, just having escaped whatever monster had toyed with them.

Stiles' dad was leaning on the reception counter, whispering animatedly with Melissa McCall on the other side who was typing on the computer while listening to the Sheriff. When his dad looked up and saw them approaching, his eyes widened in shock and surprise before it was replaced by an all too familiar expression of resigned weariness.

"You found her?" his father stated the obvious. Behind him, Melissa shouted for some nurses to get them a bed, so that they could put Lydia down. Stiles just nodded.

"I guess I was expecting too much when I wanted you to stay at home while I do the work I was actually elected to do?" Stiles' father asked. "And how did you manage to make Derek help you?"

"I didn't think I could keep Stiles from doing something, so I accompanied him, because it´s still better than leaving him alone," Derek explained nonchalantly. Maybe it was just imagination, but Stiles was sure he saw his dad and Derek sharing a bonding expression that conveyed their exasperation about Stiles and his habits.

Before Stiles could say anything, the nurses finally arrived with a bed and he was able to lay Lydia down on it. Amidst the white sheets, her skin looked even paler, making her look as if she was made of candle wax; a doll so delicate that it would break under anyone´s touch.

"We´ll take care of her," Melissa assured him, squeezing his shoulder in what was supposed to be an encouraging gesture, but Stiles couldn't really shake off the feeling that there wasn't much that school medicine could do to help whatever supernatural quagmire he had gotten Lydia into. So, he just nodded and hoped that Melissa would leave it at that.

As doors of the elevator closed behind the bed that carried Lydia, the Sheriff turned back towards his wayward son and levelled his best disappointed parent stare at Stiles which made him swallow subconsciously. That gaze never meant something good.

"I´m too exhausted to deal with you now," his dad said. Stiles instantly felt bad for making his dad feel this way, for adding another burden on his shoulder. He wanted to speak up, to confess, so that his dad would know that he hadn't failed, that it wasn't his fault, but the moment passed without Stiles uttering a single word. Shame filled his mind.

"Apparently, Derek is more likely to do what I tell you," his dad continued turning towards the older werewolf, "so I´m asking you to take my son home and make sure he stays there." He sighed. "I´m terribly sorry. You shouldn't have to deal with this."

"It´s fine," Derek assured the Sheriff. Stiles' dad sent him a pained smile, turned towards Stiles and ruffled his hair as if he was some unruly child _(which he was, but that´s totally beside the point!)_. Then he turned around and joined two of his deputies who were waiting for him at the end of the hallway.

"Your father really worries about you," Derek broke the silence that hung between them as Stiles drove the jeep back to his home. Due to the darkness outside he couldn't quite make out Derek´s features, but every time they passed by a street light his face was illuminated by the faint yellow glow that flashed through the car before it sank back into darkness again and Stiles saw that Derek looked at him with an undecipherable expression.

"He shouldn't," Stiles mumbled. "I can take care of myself."

"Does he know that?" Derek wanted to know. Stiles didn't reply, instead shaking his head as answer. "Maybe you should tell him then?" Stiles let out a bark of laughter.

"Yeah, I should definitely tell him all about what goes bump in the night," he spoke, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "And also confess that I´m a werewolf now. That´s sure to lessen his worry, don't you think?" He shook his head. "No, he´s safer not knowing."

"Ignorance isn't always a bliss," Derek remarked. It was stated factually, no judgement whatsoever in his voice, and yet Stiles still felt like he was judged and found wanting. Derek looked like he wanted to say something but then thought it better to keep his mouth shut, for which Stiles was thankful because with all this shit going down he didn't know if he could deal with having a decision questioned of which he himself wasn't all that sure of either. So they spent the rest of the drive in silence.

"You´ll manage to get to wherever you´re spending the night?" Stiles asked as he switched Roscoe´s engine off. "I could still drop you off."

"I´ll manage," Derek replied, opening the car door and exiting the vehicle. "Just stay put. I don´t want your father after me." Stiles grinned.

"Are you afraid of my dad?" he exclaimed. Derek sent him a flat glare.

"You so are!" Stiles crooned. With one last suffering sigh, Derek turned around and then he had already taken off into the night, leaving a laughing Stiles on the steps of his home.

 **ii. location two: the cemetery**

The moon was shining from above, illuminating the scenery underneath him in silvery light that dipped everything into some kind of mysterious atmosphere, as if you had come straight into one of those cliché fantasy novels where everything important happens under the light of the silver goddess. Headstones rose from the ground, some straight and some already tilted over by the elements and passing of time. The newer ones where still unblemished, no speck of dirt, no moss and no cracks to which ivy clang to. The names of the deceased they marked was still legible, one last mark of the dead in the world of the living while rain and storm had smoothed over the names of others on the older tombstones.

Near the rear end of the cemetery, where the well-kept lawn met the untamed wilderness of the Beacon Hills Preserve, in the next-to-last row, Isaac sat in the backhoe and cursed Kate Argent for dying. Every normal teenager would be at home right now, either sleeping or pretending to be, while he had dig up the Argent woman´s grave in the middle of the night. Usually he dug up graves during the day, but the Argents wanted their former family member to be buried as soon as possible and thanks to a 'generous donation' to the administration they had sent out Isaac, so that the funeral could happen tomorrow.

At least working here meant that he wasn't forced to be at home. He pulled up his hand and touched the right side of his face, wincing as they pain spread from where his hand touched the skin. He didn't know what had set off his father _(there were too many triggers; too many to always look out for)_ , but he remembered something about the dishes not being clean enough and being ungrateful for the food that his father put on the table for both of them. In the end, it didn't really matter, anyway, because the results were always the same: Strike after strike, mixed with vitriol so hateful that it sometimes hurt even worse than the physical punishment.

So maybe digging up graves in the middle of the night wasn't that bad after all.

Isaac was about to continue digging, when he heard a noise – or at least he thought he had heard something. A twig cracking, leaves rustling and the sound of footsteps on the grass. He killed the engine, listening intensely, and – _yeah_ – there was something.

"Hello?!" Isaac called out. "Is there someone?" No reply. "Jackson, I swear to you, if that´s your idea of a joke, then I´m gonna replace all of your skincare with lube!" Again, no reply forthcoming. Huffing angrily, Isaac exited the bagger and walked towards the grave, ready to give whoever was there a piece of his mind. The thought that this could be someone dangerous crossed his mind for split second, but was then disregarded, because this was Beacon Hills and the most dangerous thing to happen here was the Sheriff´s kid driving while on a sugar high. So, no, Isaac didn't really worry.

That changed rapidly, though, when a man suddenly appeared in front of Isaac. He was only able to catch a short glimpse of the other – torn, blotted clothes; matted hair, unkempt beard – before the man was _growling at him_.

"What the fuck?!" Isaac exclaimed. He took a few steps back, trying to get as much distance between him and the weirdo as possible, but his last step met no solid ground and before Isaac could even react, he was falling into the grave.

He could feel the cold, damp earth underneath his fingertips. The only light coming from the moon above. Only two meters in the ground and it was so much colder here, moist even.

"Help!" Isaac shouted. "Help!" But there was no help forthcoming, instead there was a metallic groan and Isaac could see the backhoe tilting sideward.

"No, no, no!" he shouted but it was to no avail. With one last groan, the bagger fell over and blocked the opening of the grave. Suddenly everything was dark; he wasn't even able to see his own hand in front of him.

Memories flashed in front of him.

 _Screams. Rage. Pain. Stairs that led downward._

Isaac felt like he was suffocating. His breath went faster and faster but no air seemed to reach his lungs.

 _An empty room. Bare concrete walls. A single lightbulb at the ceiling._

There was something pressing him down. The pressure grew bigger and bigger until Isaac felt like he was about to explode. He took his head between his knees and just tried to breath.

 _A single refrigerator. Its door opened. Chains on the ground next to it. Panic. Suddenly walls everywhere. The door closed._

 _Darkness._

"Hey!" A voice pierced through the fog that beclouded Isaac´s mind. "Hey!"

Isaac looked up. The backhoe had been pushed aside, he could see the sky again. There was a man leaning over the edge of the pit, offering Isaac his hand. Still shaking, Isaac stood up, brushing the dirt off his clothes and took the help the stranger offered. With one strong pull, he helped Isaac out of the grave, steadying him when he was about to lose his balance again.

"You´re alright?" the man asked. Isaac just nodded.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Pretty morbid," the stranger remarked. "Being buried alive in a grave you dug up yourself." Isaac didn't say anything; he didn't think that the occurrence was remarkable or funny in any shape or form.

"You shouldn't be out here alone so late at night," the stranger told him. He stared at Isaac and suddenly Isaac remembered that the right half of his face was all black and blue. But the stranger couldn't possibly notice, could he? It was dark after all. Yet before Isaac could say anything, the man had already vanished. Feeling an odd mixture of despair and relief, Isaac turned around.

He still needed to finish that grave.

 **iii. location three: the school**

When Stiles entered the classroom he instantly noticed that nearly half of the class was missing: Scott (probably with Allison), Lydia (still unresponsive), Jackson (don't know, don't care) and Allison (probably because her aunt had been killed only a few days prior). With a heavy sigh, because that meant that he had to suffer through Shakespeare and Co. without the support of his best friend, Stiles banged his bag on his table and sat down, staring at the clock hanging over the door, watching the movement of the second hand.

 _Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

Stiles hadn't been sure if he should go to school after only a few superficial training lessons with Derek (Scott´s difficulties the first time around still fresh in his mind), but he just couldn't stand it anymore, being cooped up at home with his dad watching him like a hawk every time they were in the same room. Ditching school would have only made him even more suspicious and besides, Stiles really believed that he could manage to make it through the day without biting anyone´s head off. He had experience in controlling his emotions, in not letting Harrison´s cutting remarks getting through to him, in not allowing Jackson´s childish taunts rose his anger.

Stiles could feel the wolf within, looming underneath his skin, filling every gap in his mind. It was assuring to Stiles, feeling the strength of his other half coiling in his muscles, having the knowledge that nothing that walked the halls of the school could get at him. The wolf was ready, but Stiles also instinctively knew that he wouldn't rise to the surface without Stiles prompting him to do so.

He wondered how Scott had managed it; making it through the day while constantly fighting his inner wolf. The edge he must have always been on, between his human self and the unbridled anger of his wolf. It showed Scott´s stubbornness and his iron will, though, Stiles supposed, even though it was directed at the wrong subject.

Thinking about Scott made Stiles aware that he had kept putting off talking to his best friend about all that happened to him. About his new fury problem. About being an Alpha now. Stiles knew – even if Scott could be intentionally dense sometimes – he would notice that something was off with Stiles the moment they met. And he could just imagine the look of hurt and betrayal that would flash over Scott´s face if he found out in the school hallway in-between lessons. No, Stiles had to tell him in person, in a controlled environment.

So, going to the McCall´s it was before continuing with Derek where they had left off the last time. Stiles sure as hell hoped that they wouldn't continue holding twigs between his fingers.

He was interrupted in his thoughts by the door opening. To everyone´s surprise, though, it wasn't their usual English teacher that entered, bringing with him his usual atmosphere of boredom and tears, but an attractive looking woman. She had brown hair, slightly curled, that fell down till her midriff, brown eyes that shone with enthusiasm and her lips were curled into a slight smile. Wearing a beige blouse with some kind of pattern consisting of black half-circles and a black pencil skirt, the woman walked towards the desk at the front and placed her bag on it. Turning towards the class, her smile broadened.

"Hello class," she smiled. "My name´s Jennifer Blake and I´m your new English teacher."

 **iv. location four: the McCall house**

To Stiles the McCall house always had a homely atmosphere to it. It already started when you looked at it from the outside: Neither Ms McCall nor Scott had any talent at gardening, so there weren´t any well-sculptured hedges and rare flowers that needed some special care because there weren´t suited for Californian climate, but rather a meadow full of all kinds of wild flowers. The neighbours, of course, weren´t enthused about the McCall's breaking out of the neighbourhood´s uniform layout, but due to her job, Melissa was a well-respected member of the community, so they refrained from doing anything else but nagging under their breaths.

The house itself was painted in a creamy white with green shutters and a path of white gravel led from the street towards the front door, where wooden letters nailed on it, all in different colours, proclaimed this to be the home of the McCall's. Stiles and Scott had crafted them when they had been in kindergarten and ever since then they had stayed on the door, only the fading of the colour as sign of the passing of time.

Ever since Stiles and Scott had become friends, Stiles had never bothered with knocking, always storming in instead, as he knew that the door would always be open to him. And yet, right now here he stood, on the doormat with the grinning sun on it, hand hovering above the door knob, afraid of actually entering the house he had long considered to be a second home to him. But now that confrontation with Scott was inevitable, Stiles clung to every change at delayal he could get.

Stiles didn't believe that Scott would end their friendship over the werewolf matter. They were in too deep, were too entangled in things beyond most humans' perception for that to happen. And for all of Scott´s fault (and Stiles knew many of them, as did Scott know many of his) you couldn't say that lack of loyalty was one of them. Scott had stayed by him through all the adversity of Elementary, Middle and High School and never – not even once – had he complained or left Stiles. With such a strong bond of friendship between them, Stiles didn't _(couldn't)_ believe that Scott would turn his back on him over some matter Stiles had had no control over.

But there was also the fact that Scott hated his existence as werewolf. Stiles didn't know why Scott felt so negatively towards something that had offered him so much: He no longer suffered the Asthma attacks that had restricted his life so much, that had prevented him from being successful at Lacrosse; he had gotten the recognition and the girl, the strength and the power, but all he could see were the drawbacks. Maybe it was because for all of Scott´s qualities, he didn't like taking on responsibility.

"Are you ever planning on coming in?" Suddenly torn from his thoughts, Stiles looked up and saw Melissa looking at him from the opened kitchen window next to the door. "We don't bite." Stiles had to suppress a hysterical laugh at the irony of that statement.

"Nah," Stiles drawled. "I really like your doormat. I think I´ll camp here for the rest of the week and get to know it closer." Somehow Melissa was able to convey her bemused exasperation with just one crooked eyebrow. Stiles grinned at her and knowing that he couldn't stall anymore, now that he had been discovered. So, he opened the door and entered the house.

The McCall's living room had a homely feeling to it. The couch was worn and covered in all kind of stains, for which Scott and Stiles were nearly always responsible for; the shelves were covered with books and magazines which Melissa always bought with the intention to read them one day, but she never managed it due to her stressful workdays. There were pictures all over the room, showing Scott (and sometimes Stiles) during all of their development stages. Mr Call was deliberate absent on all of them.

Stiles had many memories that were connected to this room. He had spent many nights on this couch, wrapped in blankets while he had stayed with the McCalls when his dad had needed to bring his mother to the hospital again. Had slurped hot cacao and eaten marshmallows while Melissa had rubbed soothing circles on his back in an attempt to chase the fear and the loneliness away. Sometimes it had worked, sometimes not.

"Scott is in his room," Melissa told him, leaning against the doorframe that led to the kitchen. There was worry in her eyes, a certain seriousness that all mothers displayed when they noticed something off with their children. "Has something happened between the two of you? You haven´t been around as often as you used to." Dread constricted Stiles' throat and for a split second he felt like he was falling into a bottomless abyss.

"It´s nothing," Stiles lied and it tore his heart apart that he needed to lie to the woman he considered family. "It´s just...school, you know? And now that Scott´s first line and got a girlfriend, he´s got other things going on in his life." Melissa just nodded, taking in what Stiles had said. Fleeing – because that was what it was – Stiles took the stairs and made his way towards Scott´s room.

The nearer he came towards Scott´s room, the stronger the smells became: Unwashed clothes, more or less fresh pizza, the aftershave Scott used every now and then, and above everything else the smell of predator. Stiles could feel the wolf within slowly rousing from his slumber, rising to the forefront of his mind. He had entered territory of another, not belonging to him, and while he instinctively knew that Scott was no real threat to him – barely keeping his status as beta while Stiles was an Alpha in sync with his inner wolf – he was still an intruder, even though it was Stiles coming to his house.

Stiles squashed all those urges ruthlessly. He had no time for an animalistic pissing contest; he needed to talk to Scott with a clear head.

He knocked. The one time where he hadn´t and had subsequently got an eye full of Scott jerking himself off to some weird lesbian porn had been enough to firmly instil that instinct in him.

"Yeah?!" Came Scott´s muffled reply from behind the door. Steeling himself, Stiles took one last breath and entered. Scott was lounging on the bed, staring at the ceiling, probably thinking about Allison. When he looked up at Stiles, a smile spread over his face.

"Stiles!" He exclaimed and threw himself at his friend. Stiles instinctively bared his teeth, which made Scott recoil in horror.

"Man, what´s wrong with you?" He shouted.

"Sorry," Stiles apologised. "I just...I just couldn't help it."

"Why would you snarl at me?" Scott demanded to know.

"That´s what I came here to talk with you about," Stiles replied. "The night Peter..."

"Who?" Scott asked in confusion.

"The Alpha," Stiles corrected himself. "The night he was killed, he...he bit me." Scott´s eyes widened in horror. "It took and when I threw the Molotov cocktail at him; whatever power decides who´s getting the Alpha power, gave it to me." He looked at Scott and allowed his eyes to flash red.

Time seemed to stop for a moment, silence descended upon them. You could have heard a pin dropping on the ground (which Scott and Stiles as werewolves could have heard anyway). Scott just stood there, so many emotions flashing behind his brown eyes: fury, hurt, betrayal, regret and finally something like acceptance.

"So, that´s how it is now, isn´t it?"

Stiles nodded. "Yeah."

"Guess nothing´s gonna change then," Scott commented. "You were always the one leading, anyway." There were no words able to properly describe the relief that cursed through Stiles' body at that statement. Maybe he had hoped that Scott would be understanding, wouldn't let his emotion overrule his logic, but hearing the words spoken out loud did wonders for the state of Stiles' mind. He felt a little bit ashamed that he did Scott such a disservice by having believed that the other wouldn't understand, but the last few weeks had first and foremost taught Stiles that he didn't know people as well as he had believed.

"You´re taking this better than I expected," Stiles admitted.

"Well, after all this shit went down I had some time for self-reflection."

"Woah, big words there, Scottie." Scott sent him a withering glare.

"Anyway, I thought about that I sometimes let my emotion get the best of me," he continued. "I don't think that all of my actions were wrong, but that I would have been served better sometimes if I had stopped for a moment and listened."

"And I should believe your intuition more," Stiles admitted.

"See," Scott grinned, "we both have things to work on." Stiles laughed, too, and right now in this moment everything felt like it would turn out alright.


	7. Release Me

**i. sin one: wrath**

The door opened silently, allowing Jennifer to enter her apartment.

It wasn't homecoming. That implied that there was an actual home to come to, not this soulless apartment at the edge of town which she only used to sleep. She hadn't known a home for years, couldn't even remember what made an apartment a home. Was there sound instead of the familiar silence that welcomed her as she closed the door behind her and threw the keys into the bowl that stood on the cupboard? Was it a feeling of warmth and welcoming instead of the unmoving air and coldness that seeped from the walls and blanketed her like snow on the streets in winter? Was it warm light shining from the living room, instead of the cold light of the street lamps shining through the windows, casting everything in half-shadows and darkness? Was it the smell of food instead of dust?

Jennifer didn't know. Didn't care to remember. Home was for people that were whole. For people with families, for people that loved and lived. Jennifer did none of it. She walked through the hallways, past the kitchen she never used and the living room she rarely entered. Between the doors that led to those two rooms there hung a mirror on the wall, having been installed there by the people that had lived here before her.

She hated the mirror with the passion of thousand burning suns. She hated the face that would stare back at her: the brown curls that framed unblemished white skin, blue eyes that sometimes twinkled as if they knew a secret that no one else knew, the thin red lips that curved into a seductive smile whenever she laughed, the petite nose and the high cheekbones. She hated all of it because she knew that it wasn't her. She hated it because all of it was an illusion, because she didn't know who she really was, how she really had looked.

Jennifer had lost herself. Somewhere between Kali attempting to kill her and her resurrection, she had lost the woman she had been – her emotions, her desires, her hopes and her dreams. All that remained were her memories and that all-consuming desire for revenge. To look Kali into her eyes as they widened with fear and terror, as her spirit was crushed by the inevitability of her death and have her experience the same fear, the same panic, the same pain, the same hurt that Jennifer had felt when Kali had slashed her skin open again and again.

Jennifer let go of the magic that kept the illusion alive, that anchored the false skin on her like a sticky film of oil _(always wrong, always false, never true, a lie, a lie, a lie)_. The creature staring back at her from the mirror was a grotesque caricature of a human being, its skin crinkly and yellow like old parchment, her head bald and covered in angry red scars that even time could not heal. Eyes of a sickly white like purulence and a mouth framed by black lips and full of fangs that bared themselves to the onlooker whenever she attempted the mockery of a smile.

This was what Kali had reduced her to. This sad and broken mockery of life that held not a single drop of beauty. No one would look at her and see something worth being cherished, worth being kind to – worth being loved. No, everyone would see a monster that needed to put down; everyone would hate her, be disgusted and avert their gazes.

Jennifer didn't want it any different. That is what she told herself every time she stood in front of the mirror and threatened to shatter like glass; when she walked past a stranger who would smile at her, not knowing the monster that hid behind her beautiful crafted façade; when she laid in her bed at night, phantom pains wracking her body and just wished for all of this to end; when she saw the students at school under the spell of their first love, reminding her that once upon a time that had been Kali and her, that she would never experience it again.

Love and compassion hadn't saved her when she was bleeding out on the forest floor, the stars and the moon the only witnesses as she laid there in her last throes. Love and compassion hadn't been enough to stay Kali´s claws as she stood there above Jennifer, maniac glint in her eyes, high on the power she just had received. Love and compassion hadn't given Jennifer the power to come back and exert her revenge.

No, hate and wrath were what was driving her on now. An insatiable fire that burned in her chest and which she fed with all the fantasies of death and destructions she could conjure in her mind. Jennifer was burning and one day she would burn up, but as long as it was after her revenge she didn't care. She didn't care beyond that single point in the future, that one fixture that had kept her going through it all.

Even more than Kali she hated Deucalion. Hated the man for dripping his poison – his false promises of power and strength – into Kali´s heart until it reached her heart and took root in her mind. She hated him for being the depraved, loathsome monster he was and for being the reason Jennifer was now the same. She hated him for destroying his life and she feared him for being able to do so in the first place. And she loathed herself for feeling that fear.

That was why she was here now, in Beacon Hills, a small, non-descript town she would have never bothered to visit before. Her scrying had shown that Deucalion and his pack of Alphas were planning on setting their camp here. Jennifer had wasted no time, had packed her things and arrived before them, establishing herself as harmless English teacher at the local High School. She knew the history of the supernatural around her, about the Hale clan whose benevolent hand had steered the town until it all burned down around them. About the Nemeton that lurked somewhere in the vicinity of the town and just waited to be re-awoken, it´s vile and cruel energy leaking even into the heart of Beacon Hills. Jennifer could feel the ley lines that crossed underneath the steel and concrete, could feel them thrumming, full of energy, welcoming her as if she was an old friend they had waited for all this time.

Beacon Hills had woken from the sleep it had fallen in after the Hales had either died or left. Jennifer knew that the main branch of the Argents lived in the town as did the last surviving Hale; she had seen them in the waters, living their insignificant lives, scurrying around not noticing the dark clouds that drew nearer and nearer with every day. She had noticed the two boys in her class, had seen the wolves underneath their skins. One a scrappy, near feral thing, barely kept in check by the boy´s will who had looked at her with hate and fear in its yellows eyes, baring its fangs at her but unable to attack because its other half wouldn't – _couldn't_ – listen. The other wolf a majestic white beast with red eyes that appraised her with cool calculation, not bothered by her presence in the least because it knew of its place as apex predator. An Alpha.

Jennifer wondered if the boy would notice her or if he wouldn't as his wolf didn't see her as danger _(not yet)_. She asked herself if she should warn the boy (only a few years younger than she had been when she died, eyes still inquisitive, still full of curiosity, skin still pure and unblemished) that the Alpha Pack was coming for him, ready to either break or take him, but she hadn't. She couldn't allow herself to become invested, to form connections that Deucalion and his ilk would break like glass. So, she watched him and mourned him for he was already dead, even if he didn't know it yet. Even if he survived the Alpha Pack.

Maybe she would light a candle for him after she was finished with Kali.

A candle for him and a candle for herself.

 **ii. sin two: envy**

Scott watched as Stiles retracted his claws, forced his face to change between the monstrous visage of the werewolf and his human face all the while Hale stood in front of him and talked him through it. Maybe Scott wasn't as observant as Stiles could be, but even he noticed that there was a certain comradery between the two of them – a softness in the way Hale spoke and moved – that hadn't been there when Hale had tried to reach out to Scott. Maybe it was because Stiles was an Alpha and Scott wasn't, or maybe because they had kind of accused Hale of being the murderer of his own sister.

Yeah, that definitely would sour any relationship.

Scott hadn't been that enthused when Stiles had rung him out of bed and told him that they were going to the old Hale house where Hale would train them and tell them stuff about being werewolves. Scott didn't really care much about the latter, because he just wanted to control this curse and didn't want to know about history or other stuff. When he had told that Stiles, the other had just rolled his eyes and continued to drag him towards the Preserve. Scott doubted that Hale would be happy to have Stiles drag him along to their training, but Stiles had told him that it had been Hales idea that he should come, too, because they couldn't really have Scott running around, unable to control himself, not with only a fragile peace hanging between them and the Argents.

Scott wanted to protest: He had been able to control himself quite well and the Argents weren't that bad. Allison was sweet and kind and wouldn't hurt a soul. She had just been deceived by her aunt and Scott couldn't really fault her for that. If Stiles was to ask him for help, he would agree without asking any questions, too, and Stiles wouldn't fault Scott for it. So, Allison wasn't really to blame. Victoria was scary as hell and Scott didn't really know her that well, but Chris was just a man who wanted to protect his family.

He didn't tell that Stiles, though, because Scott didn't think that his friend wanted to hear that right now. When they had arrived at the clearing in front of the Hale house, Hale had already been waiting for them, standing there arms crossed, that familiar scowl on his face. He had run Scott through some exercises to get a handle on how far advanced Scott: He could control his shift (thanks to what Stiles had taught him) when he was in a calm and controlled environment, but he had difficulties when he couldn't control his emotions and in fine-tuning his strength. So, while Hale assisted Stiles with his shift, Scott stood there, doing breathing exercises and trying not to break the twig he was holding between his fingers.

Watching Stiles and Hale interact and seeing the easiness with which Stiles took to this new weirdness made something dark coil in his stomach. He and Stiles had been best friends since kindergarten – 'brother from a different mother' – but Scott was keenly aware of how he always stood in Stiles' shadow. Maybe Scott possessed kindness and stubbornness and generally 'was like Captain America' (according to Stiles), but if Scott was Captain America, then Stiles was like Tony Stark: smart, good with words, suave and unbothered by other´s opinion of him. Spending his time in summer school because of his bad grades more often than not, Scott had often wished that he was more like Stiles.

Don't get him wrong, Scott wasn't jealous of Stiles all the time, or even enough to make himself notice, but every now and then Scott wished there was something he was better at than Stiles.

So, when he had been turned into a werewolf there had been a small part of him that relished in finally having something that Stiles didn't possess. Scott tried to silence that part of his mind, because he hated being a werewolf and the conditions it forced upon him, but he couldn't help but feel that satisfaction when he did something he previously couldn't have done and saw the expression of awe and admiration on Stiles' face. Scott knew that it was wrong, that he shouldn't feel that way, but he couldn't help it.

"You´re better at this than Stiles." Scott nearly fell over when Hale suddenly spoke up from beside him. The twig in his hand broke. "This is your third, isn't it? Stiles already had a whole heap of broken twigs in front of him by now."

"Hey!" Stiles mock-protested. "Don´t undermine my Alpha authority in front of Scott." Hale just raised one eyebrow at Stiles which somehow managed to convey utter exasperation and indulgence.

"If you don´t want your 'authority' undermined, I´d suggest you take a page out of Scott´s book and control your strength better," Hale remarked. Maybe Scott should revaluate his opinion on the older werewolf.

"Whatever," Stiles brushed him off. "Next time I´ll totally be in control of myself." Both Scott and Hale snorted.

"You can barely control what comes out of your mouth," Scott joked. Stiles put his hand on his chest as if he had been shot and let out a painful wailing.

"Et tu, Scott?!" he exclaimed. "Who can I trust when I can´t even trust my brother from another mother?" Against his will a smile snuck on Scott´s face at Stiles' antics.

"Hey, Scottie, wanna grab some Pizza on the way home?" Stiles asked. "I´m starving. I think I could literally eat a whole cow."

"You have to ask?" Scott exclaimed incredulously. Maybe he had some issues, but Stiles was his best friend and didn't deserve them. Scott could deal with them on his own.

 **iii. sin three: lust**

Lydia had been awake for four hours, thirty-six minutes and fourteen seconds when the door to her hospital room opened and Stiles Stilinski entered. The boy looked fatigued, his eyes framed by dark circles while his skin was even more pale than usual, but that didn't diminish the smile he flashed at her when he noticed her looking at him.

"Hi Lydia," he waved at her. Lydia didn't reply anything, pursing her lips instead and looking at Stilinski expectantly. She didn't act like this just to be cruel or dismissive, but because she really didn't know what the other wanted. She didn't know Stilinski that well; they could barely be described as acquaintances. They went to the same school, had a few classes together, nothing more.

Lydia was aware that Stilinski was obsessed with her – or at least pretended to be – which only made her avoid him even more. He didn't even know her, and yet he had professed his love to her several times which she found beyond creepy. She was a living, breathing human being and Stilinski hadn't even bothered to get to know her before he started objectifying her. To him she was not a human being but a concept he could cling to, a conquest so to speak, and because of that she showed him the cold shoulder whenever he was in the near vicinity of her.

Some girl – Heather, Lydia thought her name was – had once angrily demanded to know from Lydia why she would string Stiles along if she wasn't interested in him anyway, to which Lydia replied back that she didn't owe Stilinski anything, lest of all giving him the time of the day, just because he thought he was in love with her. No wonder women still had to fight to be treated as equals if even they themselves thought that they should give boys a chance just for being nice.

Courtesy should be the standard, not the exception.

In a moment of weakness Lydia had agreed to be Stilinski´s date for the prom, even though she had known the moment she said yes that it was a mistake. But Jackson had left her and had poisoned everyone else against her and Allison had asked her to take Stilinski to the prom as favour and so she had agreed. Maybe she had hoped that it would end his obsession with her, that he would finally realise that they weren't really meant to be together, that she didn't really want them to, but apparently it hadn't. Maybe she had hoped that this one evening of socialising with each other would humanise her enough in Stilinski´s eyes so that he would finally accept her choices, that he would recognise that he was feeling for her _(what he thought he was feeling for her)_ wasn't real, but – _again_ – apparently it hadn't.

For a split-second Lydia wondered how long it would take the nurses to get to her if she called them in case Stilinski started to confess his love to her again.

"I wanted to ask how you were feeling?" Stilinski told her after an awkward moment of silence between them. "You had us all pretty shocked."

"I´m fine," Lydia replied curtly.

"That´s good," Stilinski mumbled. "Really good. I´m glad. Did they tell you how you've been found?"

"They told me that it´s been you and Derek Hale," Lydia answered.

"Yeah, the police didn't really know where to look," Stilinski told her with pride colouring his voice, his whole posture straightening. "Seems to be a running theme with us; first at the prom and now this. Hope it won´t happen the next time." He smiled at her.

"What makes you think there´ll be a next time?" Lydia wanted to know in icy tone.

"Well, we did go to the prom together," Stilinski pointed out, face crunched up in confusion. "To be honest, going to prom together comes much later in my 10 Years Plan, but I can rearrange and adjust the whole thing…"

"Let me make this clear to you, Stilinski, even though I doubt it´ll keep," Lydia interrupted him in mid-semtence. "I don't like you. Not a bit. You think I owe you for 'saving' me? Well, newsflash for you: I don´t. Quite the opposite, the fact that you knew exactly where to look for me when my friends and the police didn't, creeps me out far more than it creates any kind of gratitude." Stilinski opened his mouth to say something, but Lydia didn't allow it, instead continuing to talk over him. "Even though you barely know me, you have never just accepted that I don't want to have anything to do with you. 'No means No' seems to be a concept that you apparently have repeatedly failed to grasp, even though we´ve been taught it since kindergarten. Again and again you ignored my wishes of being just left alone and instead put your own desires above my autonomy with 'grand, romantic' gestures that in context are just creepy because they invalidate me and reduce me to nothing but an object for you to project your desires and fantasies on."

If she had been her normal self – not laid up in a hospital, still emotionally and physically weak from her ordeals, she would have just continued to ignore the other boy in the hopes that he would get the silent hints, but right now she didn't have the strength to go through with it and just the thought of another three years of evading Stilinski in the hallways made her sick, so everything just spilled out.

She took a deep breath and continued. "You´re probably telling yourself that you know my 'real self' and that if I only saw yours, I´d see that we belong together to which I can only reply: _How. Dare. You._ How dare you implying that you, a boy who barely knows me and who has never taken the effort to get to know me, knows me better than my friends, my family or even myself? How dare you taking away my agency and claim that you know what´s the best for me, which in your opinion is you, an average, unremarkable white boy? Just because you´re nice – whatever the hell that means – and male doesn't mean I owe you anything. Even if I hook up with Greenberg, it´s still my choice and it´s not false or wrong or misguided, just because it isn't you!"

She had to grasp for air at the end of her rant, but she just couldn't stop, because for once Lydia had the hope that she would get through Stilinski´s delusion and finally put him to rights. She didn't care that his expression looked like she was gutting him alive, didn't care that his eyes started to get wet, because for long enough he hadn't cared about what she wanted either.

"So, take whatever pride you may feel for being the one who found me and leave," she finished. "And if I ever, against all odds, decide that being with you is the thing I´ve always wanted, it´ll be _I_ who decides that and it´ll be _I_ to let you know."

After that, Stilinski bolted out of the room like a deer that was fleeing from the wolf. Lydia rest her head against the pillow, closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. She couldn't wait to get out of the hospital and have her life back.

 **iv. sin four: pride**

The town of Beacon Hills stretched before him, nestled between the forest and the Preserve, its lights waging a hopeless war against the darkness of the night. Few stars shone on the horizon, the city itself a glowing point amidst the black forms of the trees. Every now and then two moving lights on the street would connote a car transporting its owner to their cosy home. Everyone was sleeping, seeking protection against the ills of the world behind walls of wood and concrete, secure in the knowledge that nothing could get at them while they were hidden behind their own four walls.

Deucalion bared his teeth in a sad mockery of a smile as he contemplated the sheep of Beacon Hills that didn't even know the danger that was coming their way. Was the new Alpha amongst them, sleeping soundly in his bed or did he notice the change in the air, the smell of danger, the whisper of change in the rustling of the leaves?

It didn't matter, anyway, Deucalion supposed. In all of his years building and leading the Alpha Pack there hadn't been a single being – human, werewolf or else – that had been able to stand against their combined powers. All of them had fallen to their – _to his_ – might and this new Alpha wouldn't be any different. Deucalion had spent years to hone his abilities, to accumulate power never wielded by a single person before, had foraged beyond anything anyone had ever hoped to achieve. No newly-minted Alpha would be able to defy him, not for long at least.

"Something´s wrong with this town." Kali appeared from behind the tree line, stopping a short distance behind him as she rightfully should. "There´s too much power thrumming underneath my feet. It doesn't want us here." Deucalion had to supress the urge to scoff at Kali´s superstitious nonsense. She was a woman of loose morale and great strength, but those characteristics also made her susceptible to fairy tales and other imaginary absurdities.

"The only power in this town is the new Alpha and us," Deucalion replied. "And ours is far greater. There´s nothing to fear for us here." Kali didn't say anything, her gaze instead sweeping over the town in front of him.

"Collect the others," Deucalion ordered. "It´s time to settle down."

* * *

 **AN:** For a very long time I considered whether or not I should include that particular Lydia POV, but in the end I decided for it because it´s something very close to my heart. I love Stiles, I really do, but let´s be real here, his behaviour in season one towards Lydia was creepy and obsessive. Insiting that Jackson wasn´t 'the right one' for her (honestly, the only person to decide that is Lydia herself), buying her gifts worth several hundred Dollars (I think it was a 32'' screen and jewelry), having a 10 Years Plan to 'make' he fall in love with him and ignoring her repeated refusals of his advances. Stiles sees Lydia as someone that needs to be protected (by him) 24/7 and he doesn't believe that she can take care of herself (or even that Scott can take care of her) and he also called Lydia by many hurtful names (ex. Soulless) just because she ignored him. Stiles made Jackson's death (and Lydia going to save him) all about himself and how he would suffer if something happened to Lydia and ignored Lydia's feeling all together even though her boyfriend had just died. And I think Lydia, being shown with a near-genius intellect, would be aware of all that.

If any men in real life would do that, the folks from tumblr wouldn´t even need one second to bring out the torches and pitchforks and honestly, even I, as a gay man, was really disgusted by that behaviour, so I really can´t imagine how a girl who´s victim of such 'affection' would feel.

In my interpretation of events, Lydia agreed to take Stiles to the prom because she was at her lowest: Jackson had distanced himself from her, she had several life-threatening occurences happening to her which nobody bothered to explain, she needed a date and then there was Stiles, the 'nice' guy, and Allison was asking her to do it as a favour, so maybe she did succumb to the social pressure and gave him a chance because of that, thinking that seeing her real self would destroy the perfect illusion of herself that Stiles had built up in his mind. So, when Stiles visits her in the hospital after another emotional draining occurence, Lydia just can´t hold back anymore and throws everything at him, because she´s off balance and feels vulnerable. And vulnerable people lash out.

Stiles and Lydia will become friends and kick ass (because I love Stydia friendship and male/female friendships in general), but before that can happen, I wanted to adress this issues and have Stiles do some soul searching.

So, rant over and I hope you don´t hate me (/.\\)


	8. Sanctuary Is Lost

**i. colour one: green**

The sign outside wasn't working. Every few seconds the neon tubes would start to flicker until they started to work properly again after a while only for the whole spectacle to start anew. Through the window of his room the flickering light would create the illusion of being right in the middle of a thunderstorm before it had calmed down again. The green light would illuminate the walls in a disgusting shade of brown, blending together with the faded colour they were painted in, as if this was some set of a bad slasher horror movie.

There was a desk directly underneath the window, made of cheap chipboard, its finish scratched off by the many guests that had spent their night in the room underneath the neon sign. 'Dylan was here', a dick, a swastika that someone had tried to cross out, but mostly just random lines. If you sat at the desk on the chair with the pillow that once had been green but was now stained with coffee, fat and many other kind of substances, and if you parted the once white but now yellowed curtains with the horrible floral pattern, you could see the whole parking lot.

There weren't many cars around: A beaten-up pick-up truck, that had once been grey but was now eroded by rust. A bible verse was proudly affixed to the rear panel, probably something about good things coming to those who worked hard. Or maybe something about the coming of the Apocalypse. You never knew. The other three cars were a Toyota Prius, a Hyundai Santa Fe and a Ford, its model unrecognisable from the window.

Every now and then a rodent would scurry over the asphalt, appearing from the shadows of the cars and disappearing on the other side in the grass. Sometimes one of the animals would stop halfway on its track, lift his head and look around as if it expected to be attacked at any given moment. Their gaze would linger on the window of the room underneath the neon sign as if they could sense that someone was watching them from there, but then they would continue their way.

Light still shone from behind the windows of the reception at the gateway of the parking lot. A hastily drawn sign told the interested customer that only cash would be accepted as mode of payment while another informed the guests that the snack machine was broken and if you wanted anything you would have to ask the personnel. From the window, you could barely make out the reception desk behind the smudged windows. A grumpy, pimpled teenager sat behind it, his blond hair sticking in every direction, as he browsed through the porn magazine that he had amateurishly hidden behind a cooking magazine. Probably from his mother, because it was doubtful that the boy would be interested in '7 Ways To Cut Onions Without Crying'. But who knew, stranger things had happened.

There was a second neon sign above the reception, this one working. The tubes were bent in the shape of the name of the motel: Beacon Motel. Not very original, but the guests that came here in the middle of the night because they had underestimated the distance to the next 'real' town probably didn't care about the name. It was cheap, it was clean and honestly, that was all a motel had to be. No one expected untold luxuries in the rooms or a pianist playing in the lounge for the guests' entertainment.

Derek sighed as he turned around, averting his gaze from the window and looking back into the room. His laptop was laying on the bed, its screen showing the pause screen of Brooklyn Ninety-Nine while a notification informed him that he had received a new mail. His phone was lying right next to it, its screen black because Derek didn't receive that many calls or messages nowadays. In front of the bed, his bag still laid unopened. He hadn't bothered to put his clothes in the closet. This was just the place he came back to sleep, nothing more and nothing less.

Spluttering out some last coughs, the air conditioner died down. It did that every now and then; the only solution was to pull the plug and wait for a few minutes before switching it on again. Not that the old and rickety machine did any good: The air was stall and much too warm, even when it worked, leaving Derek with no choice but to walk around in nothing but boxer shorts and low hanging sweatpants. At least the water pressure was decent and the room had hot water for more than thirty seconds.

It wasn't as if this was the only accommodation Derek could afford. He had inherited all of his family´s wealth plus the insurance payments ( _'blood money'_ a voice in his head whispered), but Beacon Hills wasn't much of a tourist hotspot, so there was only this motel and one on the other side of town, which was even worse. Besides, Derek wasn't willing to spend much money on a bed with four walls around it. He could make do with what he had now.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, starring at the wall opposite of him. Once a cross must have hung there, but all what was left of it was the faint impression if it on the brown wallpaper. Maybe one of the guests hadn't wanted Jesus to watch them sleep – or whatever they had done in this room.

Derek let himself fall back on the bed, his field of vision now filled with the white ceiling. He wondered how the coffee stain had gotten up there, but then decided that he didn't want to know.

Outside the green neon sign continued to flicker, casting the room in twilight.

It was kind of sad how everyone thought that he was living in the ruin of the house he had grown up in. Stiles and Scott had thought so, even the Sheriff and also…Kate. What impression must they have gotten from him to assume such? That of a broken, grieving man that couldn't let go of his past and decided to torture himself with it even while he slept by staying within the same four walls where his whole family had been murdered?

Maybe Derek was broken, but he wasn't that pathetic. Maybe he hadn't quite found closure, but he had built himself a life in New York, had had friends and acquaintances, even finished college and had been looking for jobs when the call had come that Laura had been murdered. He wasn't some sad caricature of a man, he had a life to which he intended to get back to once his affairs in Beacon Hills had been put back in order. So, everyone assuming that he would live in the burnt husk of a house grated on his nerves.

Thinking about getting his affairs in order inevitably let to thinking about the Alpha that he planned to hand the territory over once Derek had trained him up enough. Stiles may be easy to distract, annoying, exuberant and he did talk too much, but underneath Derek saw the potential for the boy to become a great Alpha. He was resourceful, methodical, intelligent and above all, he was loyal. He listened to Derek when he told the younger werewolf about their races' lore and tradition. He wasn't just interested in the physical aspect of the transformation – the strength, the healing, the enhanced senses – but also in the spiritual part of their existence and even though Derek neither showed nor said it, he was glad that Stiles wasn't like Scott.

Maybe it was unfair to the boy, but after all that had happened, Derek wasn't really in a charitable mood. When Stiles had suggested bringing Scott along, Derek had barely been able to conceal his disdain for the idea, but in the end, he had relented, because – as Siles had rightly pointed out – they couldn't leave Scott without training or supervision, lest he would bring down the Argents on them again. And no matter if Derek wanted to admit or not, putting the things in Beacon Hills right again also involved teaching Scott McCall enough so that he would survive the next years.

So, colour Derek surprised, when Scott had actually shown aptitude to the whole exercises he had put them through; to some even more than Stiles. Apparently, if he wasn't set on the idea that Derek was a murderer and distracted by the love of his life, then the beta wolf could actually listen. Seeing Stiles and Scott together – bantering and rough housing – had kindled hope in Derek that those two would be able to build the foundation for a healthy pack.

It wasn't perfect: Scott still wasn't interested in anything beyond the control of the physical aspects of his new nature while Stiles had impulse control issues and fluctuated between being too confident or being too timid, but Derek was pretty sure that with time those things would straighten themselves out. And when that had happened, he could finally go back to New York and leave Beacon Hills behind.

Outside the green neon sign continued to flicker.

 **ii. colour two: purple**

Her parents were fighting again. The door to her room was closed, but that didn't stop the muffled sounds from reaching her ears, didn't stop her from hearing her father banging his hand on the dining table or noticing her mother´s deprecating snorts. They tried to keep it quiet, but Allison had been taught how to listen and observe ever since she could remember, and so no matter what they did, she would always notice: Her mother´s lips set in a thin line, her eyes spitting fire and brimstone; her father´s tense shoulders, the way he would gnash his teeth when her mother uttered a sniping remark.

Allison didn't even know why they were still fighting. What had happened couldn't be turned back, so blaming the other and fighting over what-if´s and what could have been´s didn't change that. Sometimes Allison just wanted to scream at her parents – "Look, I´m here! I´m your daughter and I´m terrified! I´m here!" – but she never dared to. Instead she kept her head down, stayed her tongue and escaped to her room as fast as she could.

Allison felt so small and insignificant – like that one time when her cousins had laughed at her new favourite dress – but her parents wouldn't notice. Her aunt had turned out to be psychopath hell-bent on eradicating a whole family and her parents hadn't noticed. Allison had seen a man burned to death in front of her eyes, and yet her parents didn't notice how she woke up grasping for air every night after the burning man had haunted her nightmares, his gurgling screams echoing in her head even while she doused herself with cold water.

Monsters were real, but the real terror was this crushing loneliness that had settled in her bones, that chilled her every night no matter under how many blankets she hid herself. She lived in a house with two other people, but to Allison it felt like she was living alone.

As she sat at her desk, Allison regarded the clothes she had laid out for tomorrow. The sweater had been a gift from Kate, made from real Kashmir, so smooth that it felt like she was wearing nothing but a thin layer of cloth. It was purple, a colour Allison had been a big fan of when she had been nine, but right now she could imagine nothing uglier. And yet, she couldn't get rid of the sweater, didn't even want to. It was one of the few connections to the memory of her aunt that weren't tainted by what she had done. When Allison wore that sweater, she didn't think about the lunatic expression on Kate´s face as her throat was torn to pieces or her spitting abuse at the boy she loved, but about the woman that had been the first to treat Allison like a woman instead of a child; about the woman that had always given her the answers she sought instead of the reassurances her parents though she needed.

Right now, Allison needed to feel invincible. And if that meant wearing the purple sweater like an amour, then so be it. Because at the moment there was no one but herself she could rely on.

Even though he was human, Stiles was deeply ensnared in whatever was going on. Besides, they had never interacted much anyway, Allison preferring the company of Scott. Lydia was still in the hospital, the time of her return still unknown. And Scott…Allison didn't know how she felt about the boy she had fallen so deeply in love with.

It had been all so perfect until the very end. Moving to a new town, instantly falling in love with a cute boy, who rose through the ranks of the school´s sports team until he even made Co-Captain, being asked to the prom by said boy. A whirlwind romance that not even Hollywood could have dreamt up. Oh, how Allison ached for those simpler times, when her only worry was not to get too distracted by Scott. But her romance movie had suddenly turned into a horror trip – including finding out that her love had been part of a hidden world she hadn't known about – and no matter what she tried to do, Allison would never be able to unsee it.

She had written Scott that she wanted him to keep his distance until she had sorted through the maelstrom of conflicting feelings that held a tight grip on her mind, but in moments like these she wished that he would just ignore her. That he would climb through the window and profess his love to her like he had done so many times before, sweeping her off her feet and killing all those doubts that nibbled at the back of her mind. But when Allison looked out of the window, she saw nothing but the empty street.

She should have never gone with Aunt Kate.

Allison was torn out of her thoughts by a knock at her door. Seconds later it opened and her mother stepped in.

"Allison?"

"What is it?" Allison asked, too tired to put much emotion in the words. "Are you and dad finished with fighting?" Her mother pursed her lips, but instead of saying something, she sat down next to Allison.

"Your father and I only want what´s best for you," she said. "We just tend to disagree often on what that is exactly."

"The truth, maybe?" Allison scoffed. There was a flash of hurt in her mother´s eyes, but it vanished as fast as it had come. Her mother had always been good at concealing her emotions. "How about that?"

"We never intended for you to find out like that," her mother tried to assuage her.

"You never meant for me to find out at all," Allison interrupted. "You would have happily continued to lie to my face, all the while this family continues to slaughter innocent families."

"You don´t understand."

"Then help me understand, mom," Allison exclaimed, one last cry for help.

"One day, when you have children yourself, you´ll understand," her mother replied, extinguishing the last shreds of hope Allison had nurtured till then. "I just came to tell you that your grandfather will stay a while after your aunt´s funeral. He´ll help us to bring our affairs back in order." For a moment, it looked like she wanted to touch Allison, to hug her like in old times, but when Allison didn't say anything – just averting her gaze – she sighed and stood up.

Allison waited until her mother had closed the door behind before she allowed the tears to fall.

 **iii. colour three: blue**

Before Roscoe had passed on to Stiles, he had been his mother´s car.

His mother had told him the story often enough: His dad had wanted them to have a family car, a boring, bland van, probably in grey or black, possessing no individuality whatsoever, but when they had been at the car dealer, one look at the baby blue, beaten up jeep and his mother had been gone. His father had put up a valiant resistance and brought forth one reasonable argument after another – mileage, safety features, upgradability – but Claudia Stilinski would have none of it.

"It´s blue and it´s got individuality," was all that she said and being the loving man he was, John Stilinski had put the money on the table and the jeep had become theirs. Stiles had inherited the love for the jeep from his mother: The baby blue contraption had been a big part of his early life, delivering him to kindergarten and school in the morning and collecting him again in the afternoon. To him the baby blue hue meant safety, warmth and homecoming and was forever associated with his mother. The way she whooped whenever they drove through a puddle, how she could never stop to play with the radio controls because no station was playing the music she was in the mood in for or how she had always stashed a supply of Reese´s in the glove compartment that she would hand Stiles whenever his father wasn't present to look at them disapprovingly.

That was also the reason why Stiles didn't drive Roscoe for nearly a year after his mother´s death. Even the notion of getting behind the steering wheel – to sit where she once sat – had felt like a sacrilege and just the thought of changing radio stations without his mother´s constant complaints had been able to make him feel sick. As long as he didn't touch Roscoe the car was a mausoleum for his mother – a monument to her person. But the moment Stiles would start driving Roscoe, she would fade until she had vanished from this part of his life as well.

It had taken Stiles quite a while to acknowledge that his mother would stay with him irrespective of him driving the car or not. When one of her favourite song was played on the radio or when he ate a Reese´s in the car he would think of her with that all too familiar ache in his heart, but when he saw the baby blue colour now, he saw again the reliability and security it had offered his family for years.

And right now, he was sitting in the car on an empty Taco Bell parking lot, shoving Doritos down his throat as he tried to keep back the tears. Greenberg had looked so confused behind the window of the drive through as he handed Stiles his order and wished him a good night. But honestly, this was the only place in Beacon Hills where you could get cheap fast food in the middle of the night and Stiles needed to drown his sorrow in artificial flavour and Pepsi.

He couldn't quite recall how he had made it out of the hospital and drove here, which he would never do again, because, honestly, driving around in a state of emotional distress was fucking terrifying. He let out a dry laugh between bites when he thought about what a pathetic cliché he was right now; sitting in his car on an empty Taco Bell parking lot while crying over the rejection of the girl of his dreams.

Tumblr probably had a meme about that.

Lydia´s words had cut deep in more than one way. Stiles had always seen himself as a 'live and let live' person, as someone who didn't hold on to the old gender roles and who treated everyone – from man to woman and everything in-between – the same, with no regard to how society told him he should treat them. He had seen himself as progressive and liberal, and yet Lydia´s words had robbed him of that illusion, throwing into his face all those things that he had claimed he would never do. He had perpetuated the very same stereotypes he had always sworn he would never uphold, because they were toxic, oppressive and damaging.

Stiles had acted like all those boys he always scoffed at when he read about their behaviour online and hadn't even noticed.

When it came down to it, it had been about egoism.

 _He_ was in love with Lydia, so _he_ had to get her attention. She was the love of _his_ life, so _he_ had to make _her_ notice him and show her that _he_ was what´s best for her. _He_ was of the opinion that Jackson wasn't the right one for her. It made _him_ sad that she chose to ignore _him_ , so she was soulless and mean and all those other words he had used to describe her when he had complained about her to Scott because she ignored _his_ feelings.

Not once had he spent a though about _Lydia´s_ feelings on the matter.

She had told him several times that she didn't care for his advances, but it had just strengthened his resolve to show her that his feelings were genuine and that she just had to give him a chance. He had ignored her wishes and by doing so had reduced her to an object without an agenda of her own, just a plaything for his desires.

With her words Lydia had destroyed how Stiles saw himself and that hurt.

And even though intellectually he could recognise the wrongness of his behaviour, emotionally it still hurt like hell to be rejected by the girl of your dreams. Sitting there and hearing Lydia spitting fire and brimstone at him, Stiles had been able to feel how his heart had been shattered bit by bit by bit. It had felt like someone had put a machine gun to his chest and emptied a complete magazine into him.

Just thinking about it – recalling the disgust that had shone in Lydia´s eyes and the disdain that had oozed from her voice – made the first tears roll down his cheek.

He had never intended to hurt Lydia, to make her feel unsafe. He had just wanted someone he could love and someone who would love him back, but no one at their school would give 'crazy, spastic' Stilinski a chance, so he had thought that Lydia, with her hidden intelligence and kindness, would recognise all the love and kindness he had to share and maybe even reciprocate.

Stiles had just wanted to love and it hurt so much to realise that he couldn't even get that right.

So, he continued crying and eating on the empty Taco Bell parking lot.

 **iv. colour four: red**

The girl had cried for her mother in her last moments. Now she laid there, eyes starring unseeing into the distance, her mouth opened to one last cry and her throat cut; the blood flowing freely down and staining her floral-patterned dress.

Seeing her true face was a reason to be terrified, Jennifer supposed as she cleaned her dagger with a piece of cloth that she subsequently incinerated with a small release of her magic. To think that you still had your whole life in front of you only for it to be taken by a monster from your most hellish nightmares.

Jennifer did feel pity for the girl; pity and remorse. She shouldn't have died. Needn't have to, if Kali had never started this whole circle of violence. She should have gone to college, fall in love with an unremarkable boy, have her unremarkable house and 2,5 children until she died of old age surrounded by a haggle of grandchildren.

But Jennifer had taken that chance from her and for that she felt remorse.

Yet, she could also feel this new power surge through her and it made her feel better; knowing that unlike her old pack´s death, the girl´s death wouldn't be in vain. She would live on in the energy that now cursed through her body. She would be an instrument for Jennifer´s justice and that thought made it easier for her to bear.

One down, fourteen still to go.

* * *

 **AN:** I´m receiving and reading all of your reviews and am so thankful for every single of them ^^


	9. Across the Blood Water

**AN:** So yeah, I´m back ^^ don´t expect any updates soon, though, because I´m currently on an internship that has me working eight to nine hours from monday to friday. I barely have time for a personal live, let alone actually writing *sobs desperately* at least I get paid, so there´s that :D also, I signed up for the Marvey Secret Santa and honestly, why did I do that, from where should I take the time to write?!

* * *

 **i. animal one: crow**

School was dragging. It felt as if someone had slowed time, the movement of the second hand on the clock hanging above the door slower than it should be, the air stale and warm, making the teenagers in the room yearn for a refreshing breeze. Through the windows they could look upon the parking lot, full of cars but empty of people; the cars gleaming underneath the sunlight like a sea of precious stones.

Well, nearly every car except for one, but Stiles thought that Roscoe´s character surely made up for the lack of shine. A Toyota Prius just didn't have that little extra that his baby possessed.

In front of the students Ms Blake continued to read out of some Shakespearean work (Stile was pretty sure that it was Hamlet, but he had long given up on following), one hand doing grandiose gestures to emphasise what she was reading out loud from the small book that she held in the other. A few kids in the first row where furiously scribbling in their notebooks, what Stiles didn't really know, because who the fuck took notes of a Shakespeare reading? One seat to his left Stiles could practically feel Scott making puppy eyes at Allison who sat in front of him. If it wasn't the heat, then the barely contained teenage angst that scintillated between them would have definitely made the lesson unbearable for Stiles.

Honestly, Stiles felt kind of torn on the whole Scallison issue (and yeah, that was how he called it in his head because 'Scott and Allison' was such a mouthful): On one hand he really wanted to see his brother in all but blood happy and content and Scott definitely had been when he had been together with Allison, but on the other, ever since their break-up _('Pause,' Scott would remind him. 'We´re pausing our relationship until we know where we stand.')_ Scott was more focused on the supernatural side of things and made good progress on his training. And maybe it made Stiles a bad friend, but he kind of liked that he had gotten his old, pre-Allison friend back.

Now, if he could only get Scott and Derek to stop trying to out-do each other in a barely concealed alpha male posturing contest his life would be a little bit closer to the right side of his 'apocalypse to barely managing' scale which he used to measure his life ever since he had become a werewolf.

Stiles mood soured when he took in the empty seat next to Jackson. Lydia wouldn't come back to school this week at last and it suited Stiles just fine because it meant that he didn't have to face her and all what her appearance brought with it. As long as she wasn't there to remind him of her tongue lashing he could live in his perfect world of illusions where said event never happened.

Stiles had always been a fan of ignoring a problem until it went away on its own. Even though a small voice in his head whispered that this problem wouldn't and that he should do some soul searching instead.

Maybe he would do that, but not during Shakespeare.

Up front Ms Blake had finished her rendition of Hamlet (By now Stiles was pretty sure that it was Hamlet, like 80 percent or something).

"What kind of a King is Claudius?" she wanted to know as she shut the book. "What evidence shows the kind of monarch he is and the kind of man he is? Is this his appearance, or is it his true character?" She het let her gaze wander over the class, expecting someone to lift their hand, but all she received where bored or panicked expressions. Taking pity on the poor teacher, Stiles lifted his hand. Relief shining in her eyes, Ms Blake called him up.

"The character Claudius is both the major antagonist of the piece and complex," Stiles started. "He is the villain of the piece, as he admits to himself but he´s also pretty self-aware and remorse he shows for his actions complicates his villain status, much like Macbeth…" Man, was he glad that he had the wits to read up on the play before the lesson.

He had a few more lines prepared, but Mike from second row interrupted him.

"Woah, look at that cloud!" he exclaimed and pointed out of the window. And indeed, when Stiles followed with his gaze to where Mike was pointing at there was an enormous black cloud that hovered on the horizon.

"That´s weird," Stacy commented. "Usually clouds don't appear like that."

"Is it growing bigger?" Allison asked, uneasiness evident in her voice.

"No," Stiles replied, realisation dawning on him. "It´s not growing bigger. It´s getting closer." By now the 'cloud' or whatever the hell it was, had doubled in size and was closing in faster and faster.

"Down!" Ms Blake screamed. "Everyone down! Down!" A mad scrambling ensured as everyone dived for cover. Stiles hid under his table, Scott under the one right next to him while Allison covered behind Ms Blake´s desk.

And then the cloud reached them.

Girls and boys alike screamed when the whole window front shattered into thousands of shards, showering the whole room with its sharp projectiles. Stiles covered his ears, trying to keep them out, but then the screeching started. It tore through his skull like a gun shot, as if the gates of Hell had opened up to release its screaming hordes of demons upon Earth. It was a sound of fear and unimaginable terror that it had Stiles bit on his tongue so hard that he could taste blood.

And then the cadavers started to drop.

At first Stiles thought it was some piece of clothing, but he recoiled when he recognised that it was a crow, its neck bent in an unnatural angle, its beak still open in a scream that could no longer be heard while its fathomless black eyes stared lifelessly at Stiles.

Around them crows were dropping like flies, flying against the wall and blackboard again and again until their necks finally snapped. There were blood stains on the wall – ugly red blobs on the white wallpaper – teenagers around him were whimpering as they witnessed the mindless destruction around them, and feathers floating through the air, gentle and silent, a stark contrast to the mayhem around them.

Stiles could feel his wolf rising to the surface of his mind, ready to take over and defend themselves, but the lack of an obvious culprit stayed his hands for they were in a room full of students. He could feel it, though, the power charging up underneath his skin, like electricity that was flowing through his whole body.

"Dude," Scott whispered furiously. "Your eyes…they´re glowing." The other boy looked around in panic, but the people around them had better things to do than watch them.

Stiles took a deep breath, trying to slow down his heart that was beating so fast that it felt like it was about to explode in his chest. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing – in and out, in and out – until the noise around him faded into the background and the only sound was the furious beating of his heart.

When he opened his eyes again and looked at Scott the other boy nodded at him.

By now the screeching of the crows had hushed, mainly because by now the floor was littered with dozens of lifeless cadavers, an eerie sight that made Stiles feel sick. A few of the birds still lived, barely clinging to their lives, their beaks opening and closing, but no sound coming out of them, like fish gaping on land. The whole ground was covered with corpse and feathers, as if some bizarre battle had occurred in the room and now they were witnessing the carnage left by it.

Stacy stood up, ran towards the trash can and threw up in it and from the expression of his fellow students there seemed to be quite a few that looked like they would follow her suit.

"Please leave the room and gather in the hallway," Ms Blake, visibly shaken, her skin pale, her eyes wide with fear, said as she stood up, brushing imaginary dirt off her skirt. "No one leaves the school without permission, is that clear?" Everyone nodded demurely and hushed out of the room, while Ms Blake stayed behind and took in the carnage that her classroom had become.

This day couldn't become any worse.

 **ii. animal two: spider**

Did feeling more pity for the crows she had killed than for the girl whose throat she had slit make her a monster, Jennifer wondered as she looked upon the destructions she had wrought. Underneath her skin she could feel the power that the crows´ death had given her. It wasn't much compared to the death of the girl, for not even a murder of crow could compare to the might of an innocent human soul, but it was another step forward on her path to revenge.

For a short moment she had feared that the boy Alpha had discovered her when his eyes had started to blaze red; that he had felt the threads of power she had woven into the crows´ minds, but it had just been the panic that had made his inner wolf act up.

She would have been ready to put him down, then and there. Even his Alpha powers wouldn't have protected him from the magic she had readied in order to unleash it upon the boy should it prove necessary. She hadn't wanted to, though. She still saw the boy as kindred spirit – both of them either having suffered or going to suffer through Deucalion´s attention – and she didn't want to be the one to snuff out his light. Deucalion would be the one to do that, but she would be the one to take revenge.

To be honest, she would rather have sacrificed the crows somewhere else, but the panic and fear that had oozed from the children were another power boost she could use. Besides, young minds were much more resilient than they were given credit for, so they would be fine in a few days.

A small spark of life caught her attention. Jennifer looked down on her desk where a spider was hushing over the wood in a desperate attempt to reach cover. Disgust welling up, Jennifer send a small spark of magic towards the creature, which caused it to go up in flames.

A satisfied smirk curling on her face, Jennifer put back on the mask of a concerned and worried teacher. She had distressed students to calm down, after all.

 **iii. animal three: rat**

Lydia´s return home was a sober affair. Her father didn't speak much, his hands gripping the steering wheel of the car as if the world would end if he just let go a little bit. Her mother was sitting next to him, her lips pressed into a thin line while every now and then she would steal a worried glance at Lydia, as if she would vanish every minute. Lydia didn't know if she should scream at the overbearing protectiveness or be touched by it. So, she decided to ignore it, instead she gazed out of the car´s windows, watching the unremarkable houses of Beacon Hill pass her by.

It would figure that the first time her parents were in the same room again after their separation was because of a parents-teacher conference the first and for their daughter being attacked the second time. Quality family bonding time.

She wasn't allowed to go back to school for at least another few days. The doctors hadn't been happy to let her go at all, but all of their tests had indicated that – physically at least – there was nothing wrong with her, so they had just ordered her parents to watch her for any signs of a mental break-down.

Lydia had wanted to scoff at that. She didn't do break-downs.

Yet, she couldn't quite shake off that feeling that she was being watched. Every now and then she could feel this tingle at the back of her neck, but when she turned around there would be nothing. Sometimes it felt as if there was something crawling underneath her skin, like thousands of insects eating her from within, but when she touched her skin it was as unblemished as it always had been.

It was disconcerting, but Lydia just pressed her lips together and forced the feelings to go away. She didn't have time for that.

"Your father will be staying with us until you can go back to school," her mother said, breaking the suffocating silence that hung over them like a thundercloud. "We don´t want you to be alone while you recover."

"I still think it´s completely unnecessary," Lydia replied. "It´s not like I´m suicidal. I´m recovering from physical wounds, there´s nothing to be concerned about, except declining standards in my Netflix queue the longer I have nothing to do."

"We´d still feel better if one of us was with you," her father spoke.

"If you say so," Lydia replied. 'As long as it makes you feel better about yourself.' She didn't voice that last thought out loud, though, for she knew how fragile the peace between her parents was. One unguarded word could very well spark another row between them.

There wasn't really bad blood between them. They were just…opinionated and didn't shy away from voicing their opinions. And sadly, a marriage couldn't survive two people that didn't do compromises. Lydia had made peace with that long ago.

The rest of the drive was spent in silence, only interrupted by her father cursing one red light and her mother sighing every now and then as if she was contemplating world peace or other such pressing matters, like how to get red wine stains out of white blouses.

When Lydia finally closed the door of her room (only after assuring her parents that she didn't need to lay down on the couch or wanted to drink some 'calming' green tea), she, too, let out a sigh of relief and let herself fall on her bed, staring at the white ceiling.

Something had changed. Not physically; no, her walls were still painted in the same shade of purple, her carpet, too, and the white butterflies above her bed still reflected the sunlight streaming through her window at the same angles. Her bed hadn't been touched since she had gone to prom, the nail polish and her make-up utensils were still strewn all over the silver bedside tables.

Yet, it didn't feel the same. Where once before Lydia had felt safe and secure, she now only felt restlessness, as if she didn't belong here anymore. The purple, once soothing and warm, now felt oppressing and overwhelming, making it feel as if the room was smaller than it actually was.

Lydia sat up and, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed and stared at her reflection in the mirror of her wardrobe. Most of the bruising and other wounds of the flesh had vanished already, leaving behind tender pink skin. She still looked the same – from the tips of her strawberry-red hair to the full lips and high cheek-bones.

It was the eyes, she decided after a while. They were no longer bright and full of innocence, like they had been before prom, when Lydia´s world still had been harmless, boring and bland. A new heaviness had settled behind the green colour, a secret knowledge that her world wasn't boring and bland. She tried to smile, but movement didn't reach her eyes; it was just a sad mockery of joy and happiness.

There was more to the attack than what everyone had told her, of that Lydia was sure. She didn't remember much, but she was certain that she hadn't been attacked by a feral mountain lion. What an abstruse explanation. Unfortunately, the only other person present when the attack happened had been Stilinski and Lydia was pretty sure that she had burnt down all bridges there.

He knew something, though, of that she was sure. After all, he did want to tell her something before she started to verbally flay him.

Letting out a frustrated huff, Lydia threw herself back on the bed. The stress of the previous days finally catching up on her, she fell asleep soon after.

Lydia didn't know how much time had passed, but when she woke up again she wasn't in her room anymore. She could hear the splashing sound of water and when she turned around she could see that she was standing in front of the local pool, its water glowing blue from the lights that were embedded in its foundation. On the other side of the pool, the neon lights above the changing rooms were flickering, but otherwise the scenery was subsumed in complete calmness.

Lydia clutched her arms around her chest as shivers wrecked her body. It may be still summer, but the nights were cold nevertheless and she was wearing nothing more than the light summer dress she had fallen asleep in. Gravel had dug into the soles of her feet, causing an uncomfortable itch.

Lydia swallowed, trying to keep the panic at bay that was rising. She was so afraid; she didn't know how she had gotten here, didn't know what had made her sleepwalk nearly one-and-a-half miles through the streets of Beacon Hills. She didn't know if it would happen again, didn't know if anyone was watching her, didn't know who was responsible.

She needed to get back home and forget that all this had ever happened. Her parents mustn't know that she had snuck out while sleepwalking; they would never let her leave the house again if they did. But just as she was about to turn around and walk back, she noticed a figure leaning against the high seat on which the pool attendant usually sat.

"Hello?!" Lydia stage-whispered. Hesitantly she took a few steps forward.

"Hello!?" she repeated, a little bit louder this time. Something wasn't right; the person – a girl, Lydia was dimly aware – didn't answer, didn't even react in the slightest to Lydia´s shouts. She just continued to stare onto the water of the pool.

Not daring to get closer, Lydia walked a wide circle around the girl until she could look her straight in the face.

And that was when Lydia finally saw why the girl wasn't answering. Soaking her white nightgown, her throat had been cut, an expression of confusion and fear etched on her face, as if she still couldn't comprehend what had happened to her. And on the edge of the pool of blood, two rats lapping up the red liquid.

Lydia screamed.

 **iv. animal four: wolf**

The scream shot through Stiles' mind and tore him out of his sleep immediately. Without consciously doing it, his claws and fangs extended, his senses sharpening for the wolf within was as panicked as he was. There was nothing in his room, though, that warranted such an action: Papers and clothes were strewn all over the room, various pieces of newspapers and printed web-articles were pinned to the wall and all kinds of dirty dishes on his desk.

There was no danger and yet Stiles couldn't just close his eyes and go back to sleep. That scream had to have come from somewhere and from the feeling of it, Stiles would bet his collection of tortillas that looked a little bit like Jesus that it had been something supernatural. And unfortunately, anything even remotely magical fell under his purview these days. So, with a heavy sigh Stiles ran his fingers through his hair, stood up and picked up a pair of pants and a shirt from the ground.

He was struggling with getting into his jeans (apparently putting on muscle mass did make you fatter, too) when his phone rang. Diving for it, Stiles took a short moment to take in the to him unknown number before he accepted the call.

"Who´s there?" he asked.

"Stilinski?"

"Lydia?" Stiles jaw dropped and he nearly fell off the bed in surprise. Of all people that could have called him, even Jackson had been higher on his list than Lydia. After their fight Stiles had honestly thought that the girl would never talk to him again. "Are you alright?"

"I didn't know who to call," Lydia whispered frantically. "I didn't know who to call, but you´re somehow involved in all of this and I just need someone who won´t ask stupid question." She sobbed. "I need someone to help me. I didn't do it, I just found her and I don't know what to do…"

"Lydia, stop," Stiles interrupted her. "Where are you?"

"The public pool," she answered.

"What are you doing at the poll at –" Stiles glanced at his digital clock. "- three in the morning?"

"I don´t know!" Lydia hissed. "I just fell asleep and then I woke up here and there´s this corpse…"

"Wait, what?" Stiles exclaimed. "You found a corpse?!"

"Just come!" Lydia pleaded and then she had hung up. Bewildered, Stiles stared at his phone before he typed in the next number.

"Why are you calling me at 3am in the morning?" Derek´s voice sounded even more grumpy over the phone than it did in person.

"You remember Lydia, do you?" Stiles started blabbering. "The girl we found in your burnt down house who – upon us finding her – made us bleed from the ears with her screams?" Even though Derek was on the other end of the town, Stiles could practically feel him glowering at Stiles through the phone.

"What about her?" Derek asked.

"She just called me and told me that she found a corpse at the local pool," Stiles relayed what she had told him.

"Then she should call the police instead of you," Derek pointed out. Which – _yeah_ – was the obvious choice, but Stiles kind of resented having his competence questioned like that.

"Yeah, well, it´s probably something supernatural, so maybe we should take a look before we call my dad?" Stiles suggested.

"Fine," Derek relented. "I´ll be there in ten minutes." And then he, too, just hung up on Stiles.

"Woah, rude."

 **v. animal five: human**

The night sky was clear. Thousands of stars shone from the firmament, like a sea of precious diamonds. Only a few lonely clouds made their way across the sky, lonesome travellers on their way to God only knows where. The light of the moon and stars cast the trees of the Beacon Hill Preserve in a silver glow that made them appear as if they were part of a fairy tale, instead of belonging to the earthly plane of existence. Silence hung heavy over the area, naught a sound disrupting the calm and quiet. A picture that could have come straight out of a children's tale; a beautiful haunted forest in which the princess would find her hero and save the day.

But then a gun shot rang through the air, destroying the picturesque peace and slicing through the silence like a hot knife through butter. Crows could be heard cawing in the distance and then there was – first barely audible, but slowly getting louder – the sound of footsteps on the foliage. Someone was running through the forest, their breathing fast and irregular, their heart beating so fast that it rang through the silence like canon shots. From one moment to the next, the air was charged with fear and terror. Something was coming.

Suddenly a man broke through the shrubbery, not caring of the thorns and branches that tore into his already shabby clothing, not feeling the thin lines of blood they drew over his exposed skin. There was a maniac glint in his eyes, full of panic, hurt and also a little rage. He moved with an inhuman grace that seemed so alien on a person who looked like he had spent the better part of his life living under a bridge, but it was there, nevertheless.

A second shot rang through the air. A loud thud and then the man was falling to the ground, hissing in pain. He tried to get back on his feet, but it seemed that he was no longer in control of his movements and so he just flailed and wailed on the ground.

Around him the undergrowth parted and gave way to a group of men wearing nothing but black, military-style clothing. Machine guns were holstered over their backs while electricity crackled around the black rods that each of them were holding in their hands.

All but one of the men were wearing black ski masks. The one man who did regard the man lying on the ground with nothing but disgust and hate in his eyes.

"You're not from here, are you? Are you?!" he questioned, his voice forceful and full of malice.

"No. No," the man on the ground stammered. "I came..I came looking for the Alpha. I heard he was here. That's all. Look, I didn't do anything. I didn't hurt anyone. No one living. He wasn't, I swear."

"Gentlemen! Take a look at a rare sight. You wanna tell them what we've caught?" the older man exclaimed, extending his arms as if he was presenting something marvellous to an enraptured audience. It was a sickening spectacle.

"An Omega," on the masked men answered.

"The lone wolf! Possibly kicked out of his own pack," the old man spoke, glee obvious in his voice. He revelled in the other man´s suffering, in his sorry state. "Or the survivor of a pack that was hunted down. Maybe even murdered. And possibly alone by his own choice. Certainly not a wise choice. Because, as I am about to demonstrate, an Omega rarely survives on his own." He nodded towards one of the men who stepped forward and handed him a long object, wrapped in black cloth. Carefully, the old man unwrapped whatever laid underneath it and uncovered a sword, its blade shimmering underneath the faint moon light.

"Sir, but he hasn't broken the Code," one man objected, hesitation evident in his voice.

"Not when they murder my daughter!" the old man spit, his voice filled with venom and hate. "No code. Not anymore. From now on, these things are just bodies waiting to be cut in half. Are you listening? Because I don't care if they're wounded and weak. Or seemingly harmless - begging for their life with the promise that they will never, ever hurt anyone. Or some desperate, lost soul with no idea what they're getting into. We find them. We kill them. We kill them all!" The last words were screamed with a vehemence that the man who had voiced his objection quivered in fear. Then, in one long-drawn arc, the sword soared through the air and was brought down on the werewolf, cutting him in half.

"One down, hundreds still to go."

The night sky was clear. Thousands of stars shone from the firmament, like a sea of precious diamonds. Nobody would ever know that they had just witnessed the start of a war.


	10. Unexplained Forces

**AN:** New year, new update ^^

My internships picks up again next Monday until Feb 28th, so don´t expect much acitivity from me until then.

Also, explicit sexual content ahead.

* * *

 **i. liquid one: blood**

The girl didn't look dead.

Not a single strand of her honey-blonde hair was out of place, lining her delicate face like a frame woven from gold. In her blue eyes the lights of the pool were reflected like the stars on the wide ocean, a never repeating pattern that made them appear as if there was still a soul shining from behind them, locked in the body that would no longer obey. Her skin was pale – unnaturally so – and stood in stark contrast to her orange freckles that covered her cheeks and nose like star constellation on the night sky. Her thin lips were blue, as if she had just laid down because she felt cold and just had never woken up.

She didn't look dead. She looked like she had just sat down to watch the lights dance over the water in the pool and didn't have the strength to get up again. She looked as if she hadn't minded dying, maybe even welcomed it.

But that was only her face. The blood covering the rest of her body told another story.

It stemmed from an ugly cut marring her otherwise unblemished throat. It had been cut and like an animal led to its slaughter, the girl had bleed out on the stone tiles that surrounded the pool with naught but the stars and the lights as companions while her life had flowed out of her, a river of red that trickled away through the cracks in the ground.

Her face spoke of serenity, but her body spoke of predation.

Stiles wondered what she had felt while she was dying. Fear? Pain? Calmness? Had she even been aware of what was to come or had she clung to the hope that someone would come and save her until there had been no blood left for her weak and frail hurt to pump through her body? Had she accepted the inevitability of her demise or had she fought until the very end?

Those question would forever be left unanswered, maybe haunting them in their nightmares along the way.

"Why did you call me?" Stiles asked again. "And not the police?" He was so tired, so goddamn tired. He felt like he was running ever since that night he went out into the woods with Scott and hadn't stopped yet. One mystery after another, each more gruesome than the one before. Maybe it was a little bit unfair to Lydia, but she should have called the police instead of him. Maybe he was 'somehow involved' in all of this, but that didn't mean that it should be the responsibility of a barely seventeen-year-old boy to look at the corpse of his peers.

But when he turned his head and saw Derek standing next to Lydia, one hand on her shoulder in what was supposed to be a calming gesture, staring at Stiles like he was supposed to know what was going on, he realised that maybe he would never be that clueless teenager again. This town was his responsibility now; that was the duty becoming Alpha had thrusted upon him. And maybe with time his hands would turn as red as his eyes already were.

Stiles didn't think that being Alpha would be about peacefully upholding the law.

"I´m not stupid," Lydia finally said.

"I never claimed you were," Stiles agreed like you would agree with an upset child to calm it down.

"There´s something going on in this town and ever since the prom I´m unwilling part of whatever it is," Lydia spoke. "The doctors tell me that it´s just trauma and imagination, but I don´t believe them. I´m not some frail, little girl that builds herself fictive worlds to escape real world." She clenched her hands into fists. "And you were there: Whenever something happened you were there. I haven´t forgotten that night at the school. Humans don´t slash open rows of lockers and wild animals wouldn't even enter human settlements."

For the first time in that night Stiles truly looked at Lydia – the dishevelled strawberry-blonde hair, the tearstained face which she had tried to wipe away before they arrived, the rosé nightgown covered in dirt stains and her sore feet – and wondered what she truly felt.

Lydia was used to knowing – to be aware, to understand – but all of her skills and knowledge was falling short now and that scared her. He could see it her fraught posture, in the way her gaze flickered over her surroundings, trying to make sense of it. She was scared and despite vocally stating differently, she doubted her own senses. Stiles knew how that felt and could sympathise with it, but that didn't change how Lydia had lashed out and hurt him where he was most vulnerable: His own sense of worth.

But he also knew that in some aspects, Lydia and he were so much alike that they could be the sides of the same coin. Like he, Lydia had caught a glance of something that was hidden, that wasn't supposed to be discovered by ordinary humans (though, the question remained if Lydia was still that ordinary anymore) and she wouldn't – _couldn't_ – let go of it until she had uncovered everything there was to know.

Lydia would be his spectre, whether Stiles wanted it or not, haunting him until she found out what she needed. All that was left to Stiles was to decide if he should fight her all along the way until one of them would give in or if he should make her an ally that would have his back while he more or less stumbled through the path laid out in front of him.

But that wasn't something he could just decide on a whim. He had Derek and Scott to consider. He couldn't just make a decision and force them to comply. Maybe the old Alpha would have, but Stiles didn't want to be Peter Hale.

"Maybe you´re right," he spoke. "But right now is neither the time nor the place for that conversation. I have others to consider." Lydia pursed her lips in displeasure.

"But you will think about it?" she asked. Stiles nodded.

"Well, if that´s the best I can hope for then I´ll accept it," Lydia agreed. "But don´t think you can string me along forever, Stilinski."

"Maybe you should think about using my name if you want something from me," Stiles pointed out.

"We don´t have time for this," Derek interrupted. "Sooner or later someone´s gonna come looking why the lights are on or even worse, call the police." He walked over to Stiles and crouched down next to him.

"Do you smell it?" he asked, loud enough so that Stiles could pick it up but not loud enough for Lydia to understand.

"Smell what?" Stiles wanted to know. When they had first arrived the stench of chlorine had been so overpowering that Stiles had nearly gagged, but by now he could just blend it out, even though every now and then a breeze would flare up and bring with it a new wave of the smell.

He took in another deep breath: Again, there was the smell of chlorine, but also the metallic odour of the girl´s blood. Yet those weren't the only smells Stiles could make out: There was something else, something unnatural. It crept up Stiles nose and clung to it like oil, so disgusting that he had to supress a shudder. It smelled like the mould Stiles sometimes found in their house, like rotten food and decaying animal corpses.

It was a smell that shouldn't be here.

"What´s that?" he asked Derek with wide eyes.

"I don´t know," the older werewolf admitted. "But whatever it is, it´s not natural. It´s not human."

"Do you think it´s a danger to my dad?" Stiles wanted to know.

"It already killed someone, so it would be a lie to claim that it´s not," Derek spoke. "But you can´t keep this from your father, Stiles. We can´t just dispose of someone´s corpse." Stiles knew that Derek was right, but that didn't mean that he had to feel good about it.

"What are you talking about?" Lydia exclaimed from behind them. Both werewolves stood up and turned back to her.

"You still haven't told us how you found her," Stiles remarked, for now ignoring her question.

"I don´t know," Lydia replied. "My parents brought me home. I feel asleep in my room and when I woke up I was here at the pool and found the body." She swallowed. "I remember my dream, though. I felt this urge, this need, to walk here. There was something that wanted me here, something that led me to this place." Stiles shared a glance with Derek but otherwise they didn't say anything.

"So, this is what we´re gonna do now," Stiles told Lydia. "We´re gonna drive you home and you´ll act as if nothing happened. Derek and I will then call the police from a phone booth and give them an anonymous tip about the body. They´re required by law to follow up on it, so they´ll definitely find her."

"You want us to just go?" Lydia repeated incredulously.

"We can´t be here when the police come," Stiles reminded her. "What are you going to say when they ask you how you found the body? That a dream told you were it was? And what if they want to know why you called me first instead of the police, like any innocent citizen would? What if they ask us why we waited so long to call them?" Lydia kept silent, but she was obviously aware that what Stiles was telling her were the hard truths. "Derek already was the suspect of a murder case, so it won´t do him any good if he´s found at another crime scene. And I´m on thin ice with my dad, too." Stiles shook his head. "No, it´s the best if none of us was found here."

"Alright," Lydia finally relented. She sent one last glance at the dead girl, full of emotions Stiles couldn't wholly decipher, and then she turned around and walked towards Roscoe who was standing on the empty parking lot of the pool.

"I don´t like this, Derek," Stiles said to the older man while they followed her. "I already felt out of my depth before and now there´s some monster running around killing people."

"You and Scott managed to take down Peter," Derek replied and Stiles wondered if it was real or just his imagination when he saw a small hint of grief flashing through Derek´s eyes before it was gone again. "Whatever this is, you´ll stop that, too. And I´ll help you."

And somehow that managed to calm Stiles down when everything else had failed.

 **ii. liquid two: wine**

Chris had never liked wine.

It played well into the image that many people, even in their small hunter community, had of him: The coarse, ungraceful male scion of the Argent family who wasn't good with words or politics but who had somehow managed to marry a woman of culture and taste. So, him favouring beer over wine just confirmed whatever notions others held of him.

Kate had always been the 'better' Argent: Her deadliness hidden under layers of grace, eloquence and beauty. With a few words she had been able to play even the most experienced man and her bright smile and innocent eyes had concealed the calculating and scheming mind that laid underneath.

Kate was the brain and Chris the brawn.

As Chris watched his father sip from the red his wife had offered him from their extensive wine collection (that she alone was responsible for, because to Chris a nine Dollar wine from Walmart tasted the same as a four hundred Dollar wine from Europe) he wondered if just being the second best had maybe saved him from suffering Kate´s fate.

Chris wasn't stupid. As smart and resourceful Kate had been, she still would have needed help to kill all of the Hales. She needed the weapons, the wolfbane, the hunters to control the perimeter and Chris still held a high enough opinion of his colleagues to hope that not all of them would break the Code like Kate had.

She hadn't been alone in this, but Chris just didn't know who had backed her.

"Your wife´s taste in wine is truly exceptional," his father remarked as he took another sip from the glass. "I hadn't had such a good one in ages."

"Victoria prides herself in her taste," Chris replied diplomatically. Gerard just hummed nonchalantly.

"Why are you here, father?" Chris asked. It had always been 'father' or 'sir'. Only Kate had been allowed to call him 'Dad' and that only until she started training.

"I´m here for my new job, of course," Gerard replied, his grin bereft of humour. "I´m the new principal of Beacon Hills High School." Chris didn't even bat an eye when he heard his father´s announcement. Gerard´s influence reached wide and deep, so that he was able to install himself as principal despite lacking the needed credentials didn't surprise him.

"To what end?" he wanted to know.

"Because somewhere in this towns are the mutts responsible for my daughter´s death," Gerard grinded out. "And I will discover who they are and make them pay for it."

"I told you what Kate did," Chris reminded his father.

"Lies and slander!" Gerard exclaimed. "And to think that my own flesh and blood would take the words of a deranged werewolf and his breed over his own." Chris didn't bother to mention that Kate had practically admitted her deed before she had been killed. He knew that his father wouldn't believe him, wouldn't _want to_ believe him. His Kate could do nothing wrong.

Again, Chris was glad that he hadn't told his father about the McCall boy. The boy may be a werewolf and a danger to himself and others, but as long as he kept away from his Allison and didn't harm anyone, the boy could live his life unchallenged by any Argent hunters. No minor deserved his father´s attention.

"Why do you think posing as principal would help you flush them out?" Chris asked, genuinely curious. "The only known werewolf in this town has long since finished school."

"I know there´s a new Alpha," Gerard replied. "And I know that it isn´t the Hale boy. There´s at least one other werewolf running around this town, having inherited the mad Alpha´s power. We know that those beasts tend to go after children and teenagers because they´re likelier to survive the Bite." He took another sip from his wine. "So, yes, I´m sure: Whoever this new werewolf is, I´ll find him at the school.

Besides," his father added. "I want to spend time with my granddaughter."

 **iii. liquid three: semen**

"Faster!" Jackson commanded, burying his head into the pillow underneath him. Danny happily obliged, his pace becoming even faster and harder as he thrust into Jackson from behind. Jackson was sure that he would receive bruises on his hips where Danny was gripping him so hard as if he believed Jackson would flee otherwise.

If Lydia wasn't in the hospital she would notice. Her eyes would narrow at the blue spots, her immaculate fingers would thrum on the table top and her lips would thin in displeasure but when they were alone again fury would blaze in her green eyes and she would cover up all of the bruises with ones caused by herself.

It was a game between them. Determining who could hurt the other the most, who was the first to drive the other away permanently. Lydia used cutting remarks, hurtful observation she flung at him when they were alone, charming his parents like he never could and Jackson – well, he used Danny. To show Lydia that she didn't own him, that she didn't control him, no matter what everyone else thought.

They were made for each other: Lydia, who didn't really know who she was, hiding herself behind dozens of personas, so that no one would know her real self, could find out her weaknesses and her true desires; Lydia who played and manipulated the people around her so that her greatest fear had become to suddenly find herself as the one being manipulated and Jackson who didn't really know who he was either, because his adoptive parents had taken that chance away from him; who always had to be the best at everything because if he wasn't, well, what kept his parents from abandoning him then? Apart the two of them were lost, drifting aimlessly in a world that didn't want them, but together they could keep themselves anchored. Being together hurt like swallowing broken glass, but being apart hurt even more.

Pleasure was rolling through his body like ocean waves. Heat cursing through his veins, coiling in his stomach, repelling all those other bothersome feelings that usually swirled in his mind. His cock hung aching between his legs, leaking pre-cum onto his pristine bedsheets. Jackson knew, one touch and he would be done. Maybe Lydia would notice that someone else had made him scream in his bed, had made Jackson twist in his sheets.

Probably not. She had been in a coma, after all and was now at home, recovering. She hadn't even bothered to call him since she had woken up.

She always knew how to hurt Jackson the most.

Danny bent forwards, slinging both of his arms around Jackson as he pressed his chest against the other´s back. Jackson could feel Danny´s breath ghosting over his neck, could feel his heart pounding against his back and feel their sweat rolling down his back.

"Does she make you feel like this?" Danny whispered into his ear. "Make you scream like this?" He emphasised it by hitting Jackson´s prostate with each consecutive thrust, making pleasure explode in Jackson´s whole body. "Make you cum like this?" Danny´s hands found Jackson´s nipples and then he was tweaking them. Jackson let out a hoarse scream and then he was coming, shooting his sperm all over the bed. The clenching of his ass sent Danny over the edge as well, the man slipping out of Jackson and stroking himself to completion, coming all over Jackson´s back.

Both of them collapsed onto the mattress. The smell of come, sweat and sex penetrated the air and for a while nothing but their laboured breaths could be heard in the room.

"We can´t do this anymore," Danny said after a while. "It´s only destroying you. Destroying us both. And it isn't healthy, anyway, you using me as coping mechanism for whatever is going on with you and Lydia." Jackson didn't reply anything. Danny always said the same after they had done the deed. He always wanted them to stop because he thought that Lydia didn't know and that she would be broken if she ever found out. That it would destroy the friendship between the two of them, but unlike Danny Jackson knew that Lydia liked the other because – not despite – the fact that he sometimes slept with her boyfriend.

Sometimes Jackson felt bad for turning Danny into the cliché of the gay boy yearning for his best friend who was in a relationship with a girl, fooling himself into believing that one day they could have the happy relationship he wished for. Sometimes Danny would smile at him and Jackson´s heart would shatter, a burning shame welling up in his gut. But the alternative was letting Danny go and allow him to find happiness with someone else. Someone who wasn't Jackson. Everyone was always leaving him (his own parents the first but not the last). Jackson couldn't bear the thought of Danny leaving him, too, for someone else. And if he had to use sex and empty promises of a future together to keep his only friend at his side than Jackson would swallow the shame and the disgust and go through with it.

He couldn't be alone.

When Jackson didn't say anything, Danny stood up and began to collect his clothes which had been thrown all over the room.

"Will you still be there?" Jackson asked just as Danny was standing in the doorway, about to leave. The other boy turned around and the expression on his face was one that Jackson couldn't quite decipher.

"We´ll find out, I suppose," Danny replied.

"Guess that´s only fair," Jackson said more to himself than to Danny. Then the other was gone and Jackson was alone again.

 **iv. liquid four: tears**

Heather didn't know where she was.

The last thing she remembered was going to bed after an exhausting day of school and other activities. She had been looking forward to the next day, though, because she had finally decided that she would be brave and ask Stiles Stilinski out on a date.

She always had had a crush on the other boy, but over the last few days – she couldn't exactly pinpoint when – he had become even more mesmerising. Heather found herself unable to properly express it when she tried to speak about it with her best friend Lily, but Stiles seemed to have developed a new kind of self-confidence that shrouded him like an aura and it had made him even more appealing to her than before. And she just knew that she needed to make a move before the other girls (or God forbid, that harpy Lydia Martin) noticed and took her Stiles away from her.

Heather had closed her eyes to the thought of finally being able to get the boy of her dreams, but when she opened them again it was to a nightmare. Some dark presence had taken control of her mind, had forced her to gaze at terrible things before it had made her walk out of her room, down the stairs and onto the streets. She couldn't remember much more, only this sense of helplessness and despair, and when she woke up from the nightmare she had found herself in this old cellar, the cold gnawing at her bones like a hungry dog.

"Hello?!" she shouted. "Is there someone?" No reply but silence.

"Please!" Heather sobbed. "Please!" Tears were running down her cheeks and she hated herself for it. Hated herself for how weak and helpless she was, but fear made the flow of tears continue. She could taste them on her lips, the salty tang that clung to them like an oily film.

"Don´t cry, little girl." Startled, Heather looked up to see a woman standing on the stairwell that led up to the massive iron door that separated the cellar from the rest of the world. "There is no need to be afraid." She stepped into the light that streamed through the small window near the ceiling, the only source of illumination in the little room.

Heather let out a terrified scream when she saw the terrible disfigured face the woman was sporting. There was not a single strand of hair on her head, instead nearly all of it was covered in ugly black scars that revealed the purulent flesh underneath. Its – because that was no woman, that was a monster – lips were black and when it opened them instead of human teeth there were only sharp fangs, made to tear and rip.

"Please, don´t hurt me," Heather whimpered.

"Oh, no," the monster spoke. "I won´t hurt you. I´ll make you stronger, you see. Together with the others, we´ll be strong enough that even Deucalion won´t stand a chance against us." It came nearer and Heather couldn't help but whimper when its cold fingers grasped her chin and forced her to look up at its milky white eyes. "We only have to wait until tomorrow night until the next step can be done.

You should feel honoured, Heather, because it will be your sacrifice that will help me cleanse the world of a terrible evil."

* * *

 **AN 2:** Honestly, can no one in this fic have a healthy relationship or coping mechanisms? I promise, when Sterek finally comes it will be wholesome *nods determined*


	11. Unleashed

**AN:** My internship is over and I´m so happy that I can go back to just being a student \\(^.^)/ to celebrate the occasion have a new chapter (^.^)/ to be clear, I have absolutely no clue how the American education system works and I don´t plan to change that *shrugs*

* * *

 **communication one: lie**

When Jackson left his parent´s house he nearly did a double take when he saw Lydia standing on the stairs leading up to the door, sunglasses covering her eyes and wearing a yellow summer dress that Jackson was sure he had bought her long ago. Knowing Lydia, she had probably put it on exactly because of that. After all, she was the kind of person who would leave nothing to chance.

"What are you doing here?" he wanted to know. An outsider may have gasped in offense, hearing Jackson talk to Lydia like that after the ordeal she had to endure over the last few days, but an outsider knew nothing about the dynamics in their relationship, anyway. Jackson knew Lydia and he knew that she didn't like to be reminded of her weakness. She didn't want him to fawn over her, she didn't want him to treat her like she was a fragile porcelain doll that threatened to break if you just touched her.

Lydia wanted to be treated like nothing had happened (even though it had) and Jackson would do her the favour.

"Can I not visit my boyfriend after I spent quite some time in the hospital?" Lydia asked, not really expecting an answer. "You didn't even visit me."

"You didn't call when you were released, so I think we´re even," Jackson shot back. Lydia just shrugged as if it didn't even matter. Their relationship was a complicated one.

"I´m sure you were able to occupy your time," Lydia remarked. "With Danny, maybe?" Jackson didn't reply, instead he just stared at her with a cold intensity that would have made anyone else cower in fear. Not Lydia, though; never Lydia.

"So, let´s go," Lydia commanded.

"Where to?" Jackson wanted to know. "I have lacrosse training and school after."

"It´s not as if you are needed there. They have McCall after all," Lydia replied, probably relinquishing in that verbal slap, in tearing down Jackson´s confidence. It was her revenge for sleeping with Danny. It was their usual dance and amidst all the upheaval of the last days Jackson was somehow glad that their old toxicity was still there. "You´ll take me to Starbucks and treat me to a nice cinnamon latte and if you´re really nice I´ll blow you in the car." Jackson raised his eyebrows.

"Without blemishing your upholstery," Lydia added. "You know I´m good like that."

"Well, lead the way then," Jackson spoke. He followed her down to his car and, like the gentleman he was, even held the door of his car open for her, before he, too, let himself slump into the driver´s seat. With a low purr the engine sprang to live and then they were making their way through town.

"So, it´s like that?" Jackson asked after a while. "We continue on like nothing´s happened?" Lydia looked at him like he had suddenly gone crazy.

"What is there to talk about?" she asked, but she failed to hide the tiredness that Jackson could see in her gaze, etched into her very expression. "Nothing happened. Nothing to talk about. We´ll just continue being the dream couple every teenager in this godforsaken town aspires to be."

"If you say so," Jackson replied nonchalantly. "It´s not as if I care."

A lie, but as they continued to drive neither of them brought it up again.

 **communication two: whistle**

The smell of grass, sweat and dirty clothes penetrated the air as Stiles watched his team play lacrosse on the field while he watched from the bleachers. Everyone was moving in sync, every move calculated, not a single unnecessary step – a whole team moving with grace that Stiles hadn't thought them capable of. He had never noticed it before; too used to sit on the side-lines, joking around with Scott, but right now he could understand why the Beacon Hills lacrosse team was on its way to win the state championship this year.

For once Stiles was glad that Coach had put him on the bleachers instead of taking pity of him and allowing him to play on the field until he knocked himself out or something. It allowed him to think until lessons would start around noon. Allowed him to contemplate everything that had transpired yesterday. After they had brought Lydia back home, Derek had called in the tip from a phone booth nearby, ending the call before Tara (who had been on duty that night) could get in a word. Then, against Stiles' protest, Derek had walked home while Stiles himself had driven home, knowing that there was an ever-closing timeslot until the deputies would call his dad after confirming that there was indeed a corpse at the local pool.

He had climbed back through his window, crawled under the covers, his racing heartbeat the only sound until his dad´s phone started to vibrate. There were a few hushed words and then his dad had stood up, put his uniform on and left the house, all the while trying to keep as quiet as possible. Not that it had been of any use against Stiles' supernatural senses.

His dad hadn't been back ever since. To be honest, Stiles hadn't expected him to be. Beacon Hills wasn't Los Angeles or New York where murder was an everyday thing to happen; at least not until Peter had started his rampage. And even worse, the victim was a teenager, a student of the local High School which put even more pressure on the police to solve it as fast as possible.

Stiles hadn't slept much _(hadn't slept at all)_ and now he was here, watching his team exercise. Jackson hadn't appeared, which was unusual, but no one commented, too used by now to the captain´s antics and mood swings. Only Coach had mumbled something ominously, but he did that all the time, so no one paid much attention to it.

There was something out there that had murdered the poor girl. Something not human, something that the police of Beacon Hills could not stop. Fear surged through Stiles' veins when he imagined his dad going against whatever it was, completely at the mercy of the powers this monster could wreak. A loud crunching sound tore Stiles out of his dark imagination and when he looked down he noticed that the wooden bench had started to splinter under the force of his grip. He let go and looked around, hoping that no one had noticed the small altercation.

Stiles took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He couldn't have a panic attack right now, not in front of everyone. He just felt like he was drowning in responsibilities and duties he wasn't prepared for. What kind of world was this where teenagers had to fight evils that the majority of the world didn't even believe existed? The question to that answer had been the same ever since the world had decided to take his mother from him: An unfair one.

And what chances at protecting a whole town did they even have? An Alpha who had barely realised his powers, a beta who fought against his nature every step of the way and another beta who carried with him more trauma than the rest of them combined.

The shrill ringing of Coach´s whistle made Stile wince and cover his ears with his hands in a desperate attempt to keep the sound away.

"What was that?!" the man screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. "If I wanted to see people pummelling each other to the ground I´d watch the senior rugby league at my mother´s retirement home!" His ire was directed at the two boys lying on the ground, a mess of entangled limbs and annoyed grumbling.

Connor didn't need long to stand up again, soon followed by Isaac Lahey, but Stiles couldn't help but feel that something was off with the boy. He didn't move as gracefully as the others, kept himself more guarded, his whole stance off-balance. Stiles had never noticed before, but with his new senses his fellow student practically screamed wrongness. As he continued watching Isaac, Stiles noticed that he kept favouring his right side and that every time he moved too fast there was a short twitch on his left side as if was momentarily in pain before it abated again.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. There was something afoul with Isaac Lahey and he would find out what it was.

 **communication three: condolence**

Allison didn't know half of the people that were occupying the plastic seats that had been arrayed in front of her aunt´s last resting place. And the other half she only knew barely. From all over the country and even from beyond they had come to pay their respects, militarily looking men and harsh appearing women that Allison doubted had ever smiled in their lives. Knowing what she knew now all those people were probably hunters that her aunt had worked with over the course of her life.

She wondered if their victim had been as undeserving of their fates as the Hales had been? If she asked, they would deny it.

The casket in which the ashes of her aunt would be buried in was white, which was a mockery of the woman her aunt had been in the end, but Allison didn't say that out aloud. Maybe she couldn't find it herself to mourn the woman that had attempted to murder her _(ex-)_ boyfriend, but Allison found that she didn't even need to try to grieve for the aunt she had lost. Because whatever Kate had been and had done in her life, Allison would never doubt that her aunt had loved her, even if it was in her own twisted way in the end.

It was those thoughts Allison clung to while she endured one eulogy after another for the huntress the other hunters had known her aunt as. No one but her mourned for the Kate that had snuck out of the house with a seven-year-old Allison to get some ice cream. No one mourned the Kate that helped Allison plot against the boy that had caused her first heartbreak when she had been thirteen _(they had covered his bike with pink glitter)_. No one mourned the Kate that had been human and kind.

Maybe her father did grieve for his sister, but Allison wouldn't know. Her father was no emotional man – never had been – and in the wake of his sister´s death he had closed himself off even more. She didn't know what went on behind his light blue eyes and sometimes Allison wondered if even her mother knew or if she, too, had been cast out.

Everyone else here just mourned the huntress that would no longer kill everything and everyone that wasn't human. They mourned the reputation, the story, the legacy, but not the person.

Hypocrites, all of them.

When it was her turn to scoop the earth on her aunt´s casket, Allison did it all mechanically, not really caring about it at all. Her aunt was gone, everything else was just for show, but she followed through with it anyway. Then she stepped aside, waiting between her parents as the other guests marched past her aunt´s casket, gave their empty condolences to her parents (sometimes even directly to her if they didn't forget her existence at all), and then walked back to their cars.

They didn't need to stay here. They could go back to wherever they had come from and continue to live their carefree lives.

Allison wasn't envious at all. Really.

"Your aunt didn't die for nothing." Allison looked up and locked gazes with her grandfather who was standing next to her, his right hand on her shoulder as a gesture of silent support.

"For what did she die for then?" Allison wanted to know.

"Family," her grandfather replied. "The most important thing of it all." A breeze flared up and wafted through her hair, playing with its strands until it ebbed down again. "I´ll be staying for a while. I´ve been asked to take over as principal of your school. And I just can´t leave you alone after a loss such as this, can I?"

Allison didn't know what to say. Her grandfather had always been a distant figure in her life: He would come every now and then, showering her with gifts and attention, but then he would be gone again, on 'family business'. She loved him – she really did – but she wasn't as close to him as she had been to Kate. But having someone nearby who could act as intermediary between her parents, who could maybe defuse the tension that was suffocating the Argent household, could maybe help them heal again.

Maybe her grandfather as an outsider could put everything back in order again. Allison could certainly hope that.

 **communication four: introduction**

"Ms Blake?" Jennifer looked up from the book she was currently reading while sitting at one of the table in the teachers' lounge to see the school´s secretary standing in front of her.

"How can I help you?" she asked as she bookmarked the page she was currently on and closed the book. It wasn't that interesting anyway.

"Well, you see, we have two new students starting today and I was wondering if you´d be willing to collect them and show them around? Your English class is their first lesson, anyway."

"Isn´t it the principal´s job to show new students around?" Jennifer wanted to know. The secretary squirmed under her gaze, unable to hold it and instead looking down on the table.

"The new principal only starts tomorrow," she replied. "And I thought, seeing as you´re new here as well, you´d be able to connect with those students?" The last sentence was more of a question than a statement.

"Alright," Jennifer finally relented. It wasn't like she had something else to do, anyway. The secretary let out a breath of relief and gave Jennifer a shaky smile. "Here you have their time tables." Jennifer took the two pieces of paper, but before she could ask anything further the secretary had already turned on her heels and walked out of the room.

"Norma really needs to grow a spine someday," the chemistry teacher, an asshole called Harris, commented from the table next to her. Jennifer had already decided that he would be one of her sacrifices when she would get to the philosophers.

"And you need to grow some human decency," Alisha, a biology teacher, shot back. "But nothing can grow in the desert you call heart."

Rolling her eyes, Jennifer snatched her purse from the seat next to her and stood up, intending to leave the room before she was going to be forced to take sides in another senseless fight. Honestly, they were grown men and women who were supposed to mould the young minds of this country´s future and not little kindergarteners.

Walking the hallways towards the main entrance, Jennifer noticed that the mood seemed to be more subdued today than it usually was. A grey cloud of despondence hung over students and teachers alike, draining the hallways of their usual noise and ruckus. A few girls seemed to have cried in the solace of the restrooms, their eyes framed red and their cheeks blotched from too much crying. Apparently, the news of that poor girl´s unfortunate death had made its rounds and now the usual hypocrisy would make its round, too, everyone acting affected and concerned even when they had barely known the girl.

When she walked past the girl´s locker, Jennifer had to supress a derisive snort when she saw the mountains of flowers and teddy bears that had been erected in front of it. Statistically speaking, at least a few of those 'grieving' souls had probably bullied the girl. Jennifer hated this mendaciousness; in a few days no one would even remember the girl´s name and they would all return to their normal lives.

Besides, tomorrow they would have a new victim to grieve, anyway, Jennifer mused. That poor little virgin that she had locked away in the Preserve would be her next stepping stone to gather the power to finally extract her revenge from Deucalion and Kali.

Finally, she reached the main entrance and walked through the doors. Taking in the parking lot with its assortment of various cars and the students that bustled about, she wondered where the new students where. Maybe she should have asked Norma before the woman had scurried away.

The question was settled, though, when her gaze caught two boys leaning against the sign that proudly proclaimed the name of this fine institution. Her curiosity hadn't been piqued by the boys' appearances, even though objectively speaking their physique was above average. It also wasn't the fact that they seemed to be twins. No, what had caught the attention was the enormous wolf towering above the two boys: Of a dirty brown colour, the animal was at least two heads bigger than the boys it was connected to by nearly translucent bonds.

 _Interesting,_ Jennifer thought as she drew in her magic, burying it as deep within her mind as she could, so that the wolves wouldn't notice anything amiss with her. She had never seen twin werewolves before; ones that even seemed to share their wolf. If she wasn't on a mission already, she would have liked nothing more than investigate further.

She walked down the stairs, but when the wolf turned its head towards her, she nearly missed a step. The beast´s eyes were glowing red! As impossible as it seemed, the two boys were Alphas. And that could mean only one thing: Deucalion had arrived and was casting his net over Beacon Hills in order to catch the new Alpha. And what better way than to insert two of his own in the new Alpha´s social life.

"Hello," Jennifer greeted the two with her nicest _(fakest)_ smile. "Are you the new students here?"

"We are," one of the two replied. "This is Ethan and I´m Aiden."

"Well, then let me welcome you to Beacon Hills High," Jennifer smiled. "I already have your time tables and your first lesson is with me anyway, so you can just follow me." Aiden and Ethan picked up their bags and then they were following Jennifer through the hallways.

While she pointed out everything they needed to know, Jennifer contemplated how she would adjust her plans with the arrival of Deucalion and his stooges. She hadn't thought that they would arrive that soon, but now that they were here there wasn't much she could do, if she was honest with herself. She wasn't powerful enough – not yet, at least – to take on the whole pack, let alone Deucalion and in order to get there, she needed to proceed with her sacrifices.

Her only advantage was her anonymity. No one knew of her or her plans and if she could keep it that way until she had the power needed to go against Deucalion she would be fine.

So maybe, what if she fanned the conflict between the new Alpha and the Alpha Pack? The Stilinski kid couldn't hope to stand against the Alpha Pack, but what if she helped him from the shadows? It would draw out the conflict and weaken Deucalion. And then she could sweep in and give him the rest. Maybe the new Alpha of Beacon Hills would even manage to survive.

"Here we are." They had finally reached her classroom where her class was already waiting for her. "Class, these are Aiden and Ethan Carver who will join us for the foreseeable future. Please make them feel welcome here." As the twins made their way to the back of the room where there were still unoccupied seats, Jennifer carefully observed Stilinski.

Would he notice the new Alpha intruders or were his senses not yet developed enough to notice?

And exactly as the two passed him by, for a split-second the boy´s eyes flared up in the brightest red Jennifer had ever seen. Her lips curled into a smirk. This was going to be interesting.

"Alright, class, please take out your copies and open them on page twenty-four…"

 **communication five: non-verbal**

The symbol etched into the walls of his home bore striking similarities to a swastika. A triangle from which angles three lines extended to frame the whole thing. Derek could still smell the sour odour oozing from the black paint, making his nose sting and forcing him to suppress the need to sneeze. The symbol seemed to suck in the light around it, darkening the whole entrance area of the house. It clung to the wall like a parasite that slowly drained all life from it.

Derek knew that symbol, had heard of it while he had been in New York: The Alpha Pack, terror of werewolf packs all over the States. And he also knew what that meant for him, for Stiles and for McCall.

He let out a shaky breath. Why did everything have to come at him all at once. He had just started to get the ground back under his feet with teaching Stiles and McCall, had been looking forward to finally leave Beacon Hills again and finish his education in New York. A kind of peace had settled in his mind, one where he didn't have to look over his shoulder all the times, one where he didn't see his sister´s corpse every time he closed his eyes, but first they had found another corpse and now the Alpha Pack had come to town.

In moments like these, Derek felt so goddamn tired. He had to resist the temptation to just lay down on the ground and allow the desperation to wash over him. It would be so much easier to just give up now, to not even bother, but that was an option that Derek would not – _could not_ – choose.

So, with heavy heart, Derek pulled out his phone and typed a by now all too familiar number.

 **communication six: letters**

Scott had spent many thoughts on what he was about to do. The blank piece of paper that laid in front of him seemed to mock him with its emptiness, yet Scott wouldn't let himself be forced to rush this. Every word that he wanted to write needed to be perfect, needed to fit together like a puzzle. He knew that he wasn't good with words, that he couldn't string them together like Stiles or Lydia who played with words as if it was just another form of sport. But maybe he didn't need to be as good, anyway. Maybe what he needed was just honesty, pure and undiluted, expressed in words that didn't hide a second meaning behind their curved lines and serifs.

Honesty had never led him wrong in the past, after all.

Scott respected Allison´s wish to put distance between them until she could get her emotions back in order. He respected her wish for autonomy and he would also accept whatever choice she arrived at in the end. So, he wouldn't climb through her window and beg her to take him back, wouldn't lie in wait for her in the hallways of their High Schools or talk to her when she couldn't evade him. His mother had raised him better than that.

But he still needed to explain himself to Allison. His mother had always told him that you couldn't make an informed decision if you didn't have all the information at hand and he owed it to Allison that he explained himself to her. His reasoning, his emotions, his thoughts. Allison needed to know what had led them to where they were now and that Scott had never intended to have everything end like it did.

So, he would write her a letter and explain. Word for word, sentence for sentence; honesty packed into paper and ink.

And in the end, it would be Allison´s choice if she opened the letter and allowed the words to enter her mind or if she threw it away. It would be completely up to her.

So, Scott put the pen on the paper and started to write:

 _It started the night before you arrived in Beacon Hills. For me, at least. For others it started years ago when the Hale House burned to its ground…_


	12. Atlantis

**i. element one: water**

The rune that marred the door of the old Hale house had a distinctive nefarious aura surrounding it; at least in Stiles' opinion. Maybe it was its striking familiarity to the Nazis' swastika with its angular design or the fact that someone had bothered to deface the rotten wood with their claws which didn't speak much for their mental health, but when Stiles looked at it he couldn't help but shiver from the sheer evilness that seemed to ooze of it, clinging to it like a thin sheen of oil.

"Do you know when this happened?" Stiles asked as he stepped closer to inspect the door.

"No," Derek replied. "Probably when we went to help your friend." He was just standing there in front of the house, hands in the pockets of his pants, his expression undecipherable as he relayed everything to Stiles. He didn't look like he was feeling anything faced with the fact that somebody had disrespected his family´s final resting place like that; or if he did he was really good at hiding it. Maybe after everything he had gone through there wasn't much that could unsettle him anymore.

"What does it even mean?" Stiles continued to ask as he crouched down to take a closer look at the ground. Since the fight against Kate and Peter many people had come and gone from the house, more than in the last few years combined, which meant that there were a lot of tracks that had swirled the dust up. Most of them had already a thin sheet of dust covering them again, but there was one that seemed to be newer than the others.

"That looks like someone came here barefoot," Stiles remarked. "And those scrapes…they´re too symmetrical to be random. Look, one in front of every single toe. If I didn't know it any better, I´d say a human with claws on its feet has been here." He furrows his brows. "Do werewolves grow claws on their feet, too?" Stiles didn't think so; he would have noticed some shredded socks and shoes if it were so.

"It´s possible," Derek told him. "If you train it long enough. But there´s no practical application for it, so most just don't bother. Laura tried for a while, but after her third pairs of expensive shoes got shredded she gave up." Stiles just hummed nonchalantly, realising the importance of what just had happened: Until now Derek had never offered any personal information if Stiles hadn't pestered him for it. But this little piece of information had been given freely which meant that Stiles would only cherish it more. Bit by bit Derek was trusting him more and Stiles felt like that was an accomplishment on its own.

"I know that sign," Derek continued.

"Let me guess, it isn´t an invitation to a friendly get-together," Stiles joked. Hope dies last and all that.

"No, not really," Derek replied. "It´s the emblem of the Alpha Pack."

"I don't like the sound of those capital letters," Stiles murmured. He stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants. "Are they, like, a pack of alphas? How does that even work? I thought packs were only supposed to have on alpha each? How do they not end up just battling each other for dominance?" Stiles could remember very well how difficult it had been to hold back when it had been just Scott, a beta on his way to become an omega, so how would his reaction have been like with another alpha. Not very friendly, probably.

"I´ve only heard rumours and the like," Derek told him. "They wander the country looking for alphas that they deem worthy of becoming part of their pack."

"And what happens to all those that don't make the cut?" Stiles asked, even though he already knew the answer to that question. Derek just raised his eyebrows at him, which on itself was answer enough, Stiles supposed.

"They´re probably already here," Derek continued. "Observing you from the shadows, trying to discern the bonds that tether you to Beacon Hills." A chill ran down Stiles' spine as he remembered the two new students in his English class and his reaction to their presence.

"I think I already know where two of them are," he said to Derek. "At my school."

"What are you going to do about it?" Derek wanted to know, not a single twitch in his face giving away what he was thinking.

"I don't know," Stiles replied frustrated. "What do you think I should do?" Derek seemed to think about for a while before he replied.

"Nothing," he finally said. "There´s just not enough information to act on. What do they want? How do they want it? How many are there? What are their strengths; their weaknesses? If you provoke them too early then you maybe won´t even survive long enough to regret it."

"So, I should gather intel first?" Stiles repeated. "That´s good; that´s something I can do, something I´m good at." Even if it probably wouldn't amount to much, it was still calming to know that there was something he could do, even if it wasn't much. Everything was better than sitting around and just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"You don't have to do this, you know?" Stiles spoke. "If they´re coming for me, the safest place for you would be anywhere else but here. You don't owe me anything; hell, I probably owe you a lot more."

"You´re right," Derek replied. Stiles heart skipped a beat. "I could be anywhere else, but I chose to be here. I chose to teach you and I now I´m choosing to stay, because I can´t let a barely realised alpha and a beta who thinks that getting into a relationship with a hunter is a good idea stand against the Alpha Pack on their own."

Stiles felt kind of pathetic at how completely and overwhelmingly relieved and grateful he was when Derek spoke those words. He had meant it when he told Derek that he didn't owed him or Scott to stay, but that didn't mean that he wanted Derek to leave. The man was the only one who seemed to know at least a little bit what he was doing and without him Stiles didn't think he would be able to navigate the new world he had found himself in. Derek was like a steady rock amidst the stormy sea and Stiles knew that it wasn't fair, clinging to the other werewolf like that, hinging his survival on an already troubled individual, but he was desperate and would do anything to survive.

"Thanks," he whispered, but he knew that Derek had heard him.

"You need something else to focus on," Derek told him. "Something to take your mind off things and I know exactly the right thing." And without waiting for Stiles' reply, he had already taken off into the preserve.

"Hey, wait!" Stiles exclaimed as he scrambled to follow Derek, but there was no answer. The other werewolf had vanished into the forest and the only things that reached Stiles' ears were the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the birds in the trees around him.

Well, if Derek wanted a chase, Stiles would give him one.

He took a deep breath as he slowly allowed his inner wolf to resurface and with it all the sensation that were otherwise barred to him. The sounds around him became sharper, the smells more intense and even the air currents around him suddenly felt different. It was as if the world around him was suddenly…more.

Derek´s scent stood out from the others, not because it was more odorous or special in any way, but simply because unlike the other smells it didn't belong in the forest. Like a single misplayed note in an otherwise melodic orchestra. Stiles knew that the other werewolf could – if he wanted to – hide his scent better, but since he didn't really want to throw Stiles off his scent he didn't bother with it.

So, Stiles started to run. He ran and ran and ran and felt the air flowing through his hair, the earth shift underneath his feet. He ran like he could leave all his troubles behind, never able to catch up. He ran as if by just exerting his body he could will all the negativity away.

He ran and felt like he was free.

He ran until Derek´s trail suddenly turned cold.

A single rock loomed in front of him, nearly twice as high as the Hale house, nearly piercing through the forest cover. Beneath the rock there was a pond with the clearest water Stiles had ever seen. He could see every single pebble at the water´s edge, could see small fish moving through the water and little frogs hiding underneath the stones. The deeper the water the more turquoise it became until it shone in bright blue in the middle of the pool. Not a single wave disturbed the calm, not a single speck of dirt tainted the water.

"It´s fed by an underground well," Derek suddenly spoke up. Stiles hadn't heard him coming. "I discovered it when I was eight and fancied myself an explorer of a yet undiscovered world. My mother probably knew about it as well, but it´s been always a place where I went when things in the real world got too…intense."

"Then why are you showing me it?" Stiles asked, his throat suddenly dry.

"Because you have a lot on your plate and I think this might help you," Derek replied. Stiles closed his eyes and tried to hold back the emotions that were trying to overwhelm him. He hadn't though that such a simple gesture of understanding and compassion would be able to nearly make him cry, but now that he was here, surrounded by silence, subsumed into a kind of serenity he hadn't felt before, he really just noticed how many things were pressuring down onto him. Fighting for his life, killing Peter, turning into a werewolf, handling Scott, Lydia and the Argents, the discovery of a new body, lying to his dead and now the coming of the Alpha Pack…He didn't know how he was supposed to deal with it all. He had barely managed to get Scott through his werewolf ordeal and they had almost died several times.

It was all too much. He sank down to the ground, bending forwards, hands on his knees and just tried to breath.

"I don´t think I can make it through this," Stiles whispered. "I just can´t…I can´t do this." Stiles knew that he was about to have a panic attack, recognising the symptoms from previous experience, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had long learned that. At least that was until he felt a sudden pressure on his shoulder and when he turned his head he saw that Derek was now standing next to him, one hand on his shoulder.

He didn't say anything, but his steady presence was grounding in a way words could never be.

"You´ll make it through because you have to," Derek broke his silence. "You make it through because you don´t have any other choice. You make it through because there´s no alternative. You make it through because you have to."

And maybe that was all the reason Stiles needed.

"You need to start getting some allies," Derek continued. "Building a pack."

"I can´t pull anyone else into this," Stiles retorted. "Not if it means they´re going to die."

"Then start building on what you already have," Derek pressed on.

"I have you and Scott," Stiles pointed out. "And only you seem to be knowing what to do."

"What about the girl?" Derek inquired. "Lydia? She was bitten by my uncle, but she didn't turn. She definitely is something, even if we don't know what." Stiles kept silent, so Derek continued. "She´s already suspicious and if I have learned anything, then that sooner or later the supernatural always rears its head. Better you guide her than leaving her on her own."

"But what if that puts her in danger?" Stiles asked.

"She already is," Derek replied. "The only thing we can change is how prepared she will be. And, wouldn't you have wanted someone to help you when Scott got bitten? More than I did?"

And really, what could Stiles say against this truth that spilled from Derek´s lips?

 **ii. element two: fire**

There laid a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that it no matter where you went or who you met, people would always defer to your authority. That they instinctively knew that it was in their best interest to subordinate themselves to you, that they didn't even question it; a primordial instinct that had seen a great many leaders rise. People had seen Caesar, Genghis Khan or even Hitler and had known that those men had been designated for greatness in one form or another. There had been no questions about it, no discussion; no, they had simply come and taken what they wanted.

Gerard looked around the office that he had commandeered from his son with its old oaken furniture and the rows of bookshelves and scoffed derisively at the family pictures that littered the place. A man should always keep work and private life separated and not put it out for everyone to see like his son did. It only showed weakness.

He would need to change that if he planned to stay longer.

And he certainly didn't intent to leave any time soon. This town was in disorder, supernatural pests crawling out of their nests everywhere and only a strong and stable hand could bring back order and prosperity. Gerard had though that he had archived that aim with the extermination of the Hales, but recent events had proven that his job wasn't done yet.

It never was.

His carelessness had cost him his most precious possession: His Kate, who unlike her brother, had proven herself to be a ruthless and cunning hunter who accepted the harsh and grim truths about the way the world really worked. Now she laid buried in this godforsaken town, her life cut short by one of the monsters that paraded its streets disguised as human.

But Gerard would take revenge. For Kate, but also to show that nobody and nothing could dare to go against the Argent family and come out of it unscathed. He wouldn't allow anyone to turn away from this thinking that the Argents were an easy target.

The whole world thought silver was a werewolf´s weakness because of a translation mistake. He would remind everyone of the reasons for that.

And the first piece of his strategy laid in front of him: Four densely scribbled pages full of confessions and information.

The letter had caught Gerard´s gaze the moment he had noticed it lying on the commode in the foyer with only Allison´s name hastily written on the snow-white paper. Who would write his grandchild in such an old-fashioned way, even going so far as to personally deliver the letter to the house for there was no post stamp on it? But why wouldn't they give it to her personally then?

It reeked of conspiracy and secrecy, both things Gerard couldn't abide in his house, so he took the letter with him for later perusal. And what kind of gold mine it turned out to be!

Whoever this Scott was, Gerard would need to remember to thank him for his unintended gift. Everything that had happened ever since his son and his family had come to town neatly wrapped up on four pages – and even with names! His own son hadn't given him that, always evading the question or claiming that he didn't know, but Scott had talked about everyone freely as if it just hadn't come to his mind that his letter could end up in the wrong hands.

Chris had probably thought that he could protect the boys by holding back their names, but his son was a soft person and failed to realise that their lives had already ended the moment they had been bitten by the rabid alpha. They had been walking corpses ever since then.

Gerard could feel the pressure building in his chest that announced another of his coughing fits. He was barely able to pull a tissue out of his pocket before it wracked his body, temporarily making him unable to feel anything but the pain exploding behind his temples.

It never lasted long, but to Gerard, who despised feeling helpless and not in control, those moments when his own body betrayed him, felt like small eternities. Eternities which offered the perfect opportunity to the countless enemies he had made over the course of his life.

When the coughing finally stopped, the tissue was sprinkled with red dots. A small but damning sign that he had finally encountered an enemy that he just could not stop. At least not as human.

Another reason to come here: A young and naïve Alpha who Gerard could easily manipulate or coerce into giving him what he really wanted. Life.

Nothing would stop him, certainly no such insignificant thing as a brain tumour.

While a small smile settled on his face, Gerard stood up and walked over to the barely used fire place, shaking his head at his son´s waste of money. Why even install one in the first place when you didn't plan to use it?

He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and watched with fascination as the bloody tissue caught flames. They danced across the white fabric and left behind nothing but black ash; erasing every trace of his weakness. Only when the flames were about to reach his fingers did Gerard throw the tissue into the fireplace and watched as it was slowly consumed by the fire.

He would put the letter back and let Allison have it. And then he would use it to destroy the supernatural in this town once and for all.

 **iii. element three: air**

It was Prada´s barking that tore Lydia out of her reverie. She was sitting in her garden swing, a Jane Austen novel – a guilty pleasure of hers, which she would deny possessing with her dying breath – in her lap, wearing one of her favourite summer dresses. Yellow with blue dots and a white collar. Not a combination that sounded like it worked well together, but Lydia could make everything fashionable.

Usually, Prada was a very well-behaved dog, so it was quite a shock for Lydia when he suddenly sprang up and began barking while he ran towards the hedge that separated the Martin's garden from the rest of the world.

"Prada!" Lydia shouted after him, but her dog just wouldn't listen. "Prada, come here!" The dog continued to pace in front of the hedge. Lydia let out a frustrated huff, set her book aside and stood up. Pursing her lips, she straightened her dress and walked towards Prada who by now had placed himself in front of the garden gate and was staring at it with an intensity Lydia had never observed before in her dog.

There was someone standing behind the gate.

"Who´s there!?" Lydia called out while she picked up Prada off the ground and pressed him against her chest. He was shaking. "Show yourself!"

"Geez, Lydia, relax," came an all too familiar voice from behind the gate. "It´s just me."

"Sti…les," Lydia replied, correcting herself just in time. After all he did say that she should start calling him his first name. "Why are you loitering outside my garden?"

"I´m not loitering anywhere!" Stilinski – Stiles defended himself. "I was on my way to ring your doorbell like any well-adjusted human being would when your menace of a dog started to bark at me."

"Prada isn´t a menace," Lydia retorted, pressing a chaste kiss atop her dog´s head.

"Anyway, will you let me in?" Stiles pleaded. "It feels kinda awkward talking through a garden gate. I think one of your neighbours is watching me? An old lady with a serious stinky eye?" Lydia rolled her eyes.

"That´d Mrs Rogers," she replied. "Don´t mind her, she´s noisy but harmless." And was now probably thinking that Lydia had an illicit tryst with the Sheriff´s son behind her mother´s back. By tomorrow the whole neighbourhood would know.

Putting Prada back on the ground – the dog instantly running back towards the house – Lydia opened the garden gate and allowed Stiles entry into her little paradise.

"You´ve got a pool?" the boy exclaimed as he looked around the premise.

"As if you didn't already look it up on Google Maps," Lydia just retorted, satisfied when Stiles flushed red and started to stammer unintelligibly. "Do you want something to drink?"

"No," Stiles shook his head. "I´m fine, thanks." He paused for a moment. "Is your mother around?" Lydia narrowed her eyes at him.

"Why?" she wanted to know.

"Jesus Christ, no need to look so suspicious," Stiles exclaimed. "I´m not here to murder you or something like that. I just want to minimise the chance of someone listening in." He looked around in suspicion. "Jackson isn't here, either?" Lydia rolled her eyes at him.

"No, you don´t have to worry about him suddenly jumping out of the bushes," she assured him. She walked back to the garden swing and sat down on it while Stiles took one of the lawn chairs. Lydia examined him: He seemed to be more agitated than usual, his eyes always flickering around while he nervously fidgeted with his fingers. There was an alertness to his gaze that hadn't been there the last time she had seen him when he had helped her with that whole dead body mess. His hair was a little bit longer than usual, as if he didn't have the time to cut it short anymore. As if there were more important matters to attend to.

"So, why are you here?" Lydia asked, even though she believed that she already knew why he had come.

"I think you already know," Stiles replied.

"You´re finally going to tell me what has been going on ever since the prom…maybe even longer," Lydia stated. Stiles just nodded.

"I didn't want to tell you," he admitted. "And there´s still a part of me who thinks that telling you is the wrong choice. But –" he continued, forestalling any objections Lydia was about to utter "- I´ve been made aware that you´re in it no matter how much you know and that leaving you utterly unprepared would be irresponsible.

Yet," he continued. "I´m still warning you, Lydia, that what I´m about to tell you isn't something you can just shrug off and ignore if you don't like it. It´s something that´ll fundamentally change your world and your place in it and once unveiled you will never be able to go back. So, I want you to think about it one last time before you give me your answer: Are you really willing to give up the life you´re currently living for some great unknown?"

Lydia opened her mouth to say 'yes', but then she saw the way Stiles was looking at her: His eyes suddenly much too old for a teenaged boy, his lips set into a thin line, his whole posture weighed down by whatever was burdening him. He looked at her and seemed to plead with her to think her answer really through before giving it to him.

But, see, the thing was that Lydia already knew what her answer would be. Something had happened to her, something that no one could – or would – explain to her. Something was going on in this town, something that only a few insiders seemed to know. Lydia knew herself well enough to realise that she couldn't let it go. No matter if she said 'yes' or 'no', the mystery would stay with her, folded in the back of her mind and would keep her awake at night. If she told Stiles to go, she would carry it with her for the rest of her life, always wondering about what would have happened if she had chosen differently. As if the future had suddenly revealed itself to her, she saw this moment becoming her biggest regret in life, even as she grew old and successful. She would always look back, full of bitterness, and regret it.

Lydia couldn't say no. That was one thing she was absolutely sure of.

She looked up, her gaze locking with Stiles'.

"I am," she whispered, a soft breeze suddenly flaring up, playing with her hair and tousling it. "Tell me."

 **iv. element four: earth**

Heather had always liked the forest surrounding Beacon Hills. Her parents had always warned her about going into the woods alone, never growing tired of telling her of all the dangers that lied within the trees, from dangerous beasts to dangerous humans. That hadn't kept her from discovering the preserve on her own, though, exploring every nook and cranny. There was something about being surrounded by nature – the serenity, the tranquillity, the calmness – that gave her something that people couldn't give to her. Maybe a sense of belonging, of acceptance, that she had never felt surrounded by her peers, judging her and always gossiping. Sometimes she even wondered what it would be like to live out here, secluded and yet never alone.

The thought of being surrounded by nature was the only thing that gave Heather a sense of peace as she slowly bled out on the forest floor. As she so desperately tried to breathe and was only meet with a gurgling sound as her blood flowed out of the cut in her throat it was the feeling of fresh earth underneath her fingers that kept her grounded. As she desperately tried to survive even as her life bled out of her she was glad that she would at least die underneath a canopy of leaves instead of dying in a back alley somewhere in the town.

And as the light slowly faded from her eyes and one last tear ran down her cheek, the howl of a wolf was the last thing Heather heard in her life.


	13. Friendship To Last

**i. plant one: taxus baccata**

Nothing had changed.

The humid summer air was still fraught with the fragrance of a dozen different flowers that blossomed all around in her garden. The sun was still shining bright, the sky was still the same deep blue, with only a few lonesome clouds floating around as if they were searching for a way home. That particular silence – that only existed in suburbs, when everyone was inside, and no car drove through the streets, a halfway state that could be broken by just one single child screaming outside, one dog barking at something – still hung over the whole area.

A single drop of water dribbled from the outside faucet where her mother used to fill her watering can.

Another one. Her father had promised to fix it while he was staying here. He hadn't yet gotten to it, but she doubted that he would ever do it. Him promising to fix things was one of the many things that had led to her parent´s divorce.

A small breeze flared up, wafted through her hair and blew a single strand of her hair into her face. Usually, she would immediately put it back into its place, having no patience with imperfection when immaculateness was required. But right now, she was willing to allow her hair to act out.

The world itself was acting out, anyway, so what was a little strand of hair compared to it?

Even Prada was silent, her dog sitting on the grass at her feet, staring up at her with his big brown eyes as if he was silently waiting for her to react to the revelation she had just received.

"That definitely comes unexpected," Lydia remarked as she sat down on her deck chair and grabbed the still cold glass of juice that stood on the side table next to it. It was a useless gesture, she knew, as the cool liquid ran down her throat, cooling her from within. She wasn't thirsty, not really. She just felt like she was supposed to do something, have something to keep her hands busy with, so she just sipped at the glass and tried to look nonchalant.

"I expected some new kind of drug," she added.

"Believe me, I wish it was just that," Stilinski…Stiles replied with a laugh that sounded hollow and fake.

Lydia examined the boy that stood in front of her. He didn't look all that different. She had already noticed that his hair was longer and there was a certain shiftiness to his movements, but he didn't feel like a predator. Lydia didn't see a monster – or even just something non-human – lurking under the surface. There was nothing menacing about Stiles, nothing that made her senses scream at her to flee. Just the lanky boy he had always been, dressed in graphic t-shirts, flannels and jeans.

Stiles didn't look changed to her. He didn't look like more.

"What made you decide to tell me after all?" Lydia asked, curiosity evident in her voice even though she tried to hide it. "There was a valid chance that I wouldn't have believed you. Or that I would have told someone, maybe even someone I shouldn't tell." She paused. "As long as you couldn't be sure of my reaction I was just a security risk."

"Would you have stopped looking if I hadn't told you?" Stiles answered with a question of his own. Lydia pursed her lips.

"No," she replied. "I wouldn't."

"This world," Stiles began, waving around with his hand to indicate what he meant, "isn't as civilised as ours. It´s dangerous even for the prepared. You investigating on your own would have put you in danger I wasn't comfortable with. A few people already died, and I didn't want the next person´s death to be on my consciousness. Not when I could have prevented it." He finished solemnly.

"I guess I should apologise then," Lydia replied contritely. "How I treated you when you came to visit me in the hospital was wrong. Don´t get me wrong, I stand by what I said, but not how I did it. I should have taken the time to explain it to you. How could I expect you – a teenage boy – to understand how your actions were directly buying into society´s ideal of toxic masculinity and the pressure it puts onto young girls. I shouldn't have gone off at you like that."

Lydia meant it: Now that they were out in the open, she would never take back her words. Even though they had been spoken in anger, every single one of them had been her truth and for that she would never apologise. But she had had time to think about her actions and she had slowly come to the understanding that the way she had expressed them – in anger, intended to hurt and tear – hadn't been right.

"It wasn't only your fault," Stiles said. "I…I should have stopped pursuing you a long time ago. You made it clear on several occasions that you weren't interested and in continuing I only made you uncomfortable. It went against everything I was taught, and I thought was right and I´m ashamed that you screaming at me was needed to make me understand the impact of my actions." He looked so contrite about it, not even daring to look her in the eyes, that Lydia believed him.

"Let´s just be glad that this chapter of our acquaintance is definitely closed now," she remarked, which coaxed a small smile from Stiles.

"Yeah," he replied. "Sounds awesome."

"How shall we go on from here now?" Lydia asked.

"I really don't know," Stiles sighed. Lydia scooted aside, making space next to her on the chair where Stiles sat flopped down unceremoniously. "I´m way over my head here."

"Doesn´t Derek have a plan?" Lydia asked. It was weird to think about the fact that the mysterious Hale family had been werewolves, their whole line nearly extinguished by the family of her best friend. The hidden world underneath revealed entanglements Lydia would have never thought to be possible.

Honestly, that she hadn't thought of lycanthropy when it came to McCall´s sudden prowess at lacrosse didn't speak well of her intellect. How else should he have done it? Not even steroids, like Jackson had claimed, would have been able to archive that.

"He said I should just wait and see," Stiles said. "That there´s no use in acting now, not when we don´t have enough information."

"Sound advice," Lydia agreed. "You need more information to go on."

"Well, it´s not like I can just google 'how to defeat a murderous pack of alpha werewolves'," Stiles joked.

"You can´t, at least not directly," Lydia agreed with him. "But you can look for other things. Werewolf packs can´t be that small, can they? If the Alpha Pack makes alphas murder their own pack, those murders would still show up in the police data base. They would have still been talked about in the news. You can´t hide crimes of that magnitude."

"I can retrace their steps," Stiles finished her thoughts. "Maybe even work out their modus operandi. You´re a genius!"

"I know," Lydia replied self-confident. Her self-assurance crumbled, though, when she thought about the other, more pressing issue that Stiles revelation had brought with it.

"What about Allison?" she whispered, thinking about her best friend, who had been revealed to be as entangled in this new supernatural world as the rest of them.

"I don´t know," Stiles admitted candidly. "Kate twisted her up pretty bad. She now knows about werewolves and all that stuff, but I can´t say how she´ll react or what her parents are telling her right now." He sighed. "I can´t tell you what she´ll do. She hasn't been to school since her aunt was killed."

"She´ll come back in the next few days," Lydia supplied. "She texted me about it."

"I don´t think you should tell her that you know," Stiles told her.

"I think you´re wrong," Lydia retorted and before Stiles could say anything, she continued, forestalling his reply. "Pretending that I don't know will only push her further away. If she thinks that she can´t confide in me, she´ll have no one else to turn to but her parents or other hunters she might know, whereas if she turned to me, I could influence her to our view of things." Every word of hers was chosen deliberately. 'Our' Lydia had said, and she meant it. The old Alpha had bitten her and even though she didn't know what it had triggered, Lydia could feel deep down that some part of her that had been previously chained had been released. She wasn´t human anymore, at least not completely, but she doubted that this was a distinction hunters would make. Bigots and zealots rarely bothered to differentiate in their hate. If she was to take sides in this new world that she was now part of, even if it was just by knowing about it, then she would choose Stiles, at least until he proved himself unworthy of that trust. She doubted that, though. For all of his faults, Stiles wasn't one to deceive her.

"Also, she´s my friend and I don´t want to lie to her," Lydia added. "She doesn't deserve this."

"Don´t tell her more than what you need," Stiles told her. "She may not be a enemy, but she isn´t a friend either, at least until she proves herself to be one."

"You don´t have to tell me that," Lydia snapped. Then, trying to calm herself down, she continued: "I´m not stupid and I don´t plan to be. I won´t tell her anything important, but I´ll be there for my friend when she needs me."

"Alright," Stiles conceded. "But don´t tell Jackson." Lydia rolled her eyes at the other boy.

"I love Jackson –" she threw Stiles an angry glare when he snorted at that declaration "- but I´m well aware of his many issues that I won´t tell him about this." She shook her head. "He´s already convinced that you and McCall are on some new drug and he´s intent on finding out what it is and where you get it from." She nodded at Stiles. "Just a heads up."

"It´s appreciated," Stiles replied. For a while neither of them said anything as they both mulled over their thoughts in their own minds. It was a peaceful, companionable silence that hung between them, devoid of any awkwardness or tension.

"You know that your taxus baccata can grow up to become up to a thousand years old?" Stiles suddenly spoke out.

"What?!" Lydia replied, confused by the sudden turn of the conversation.

"Your hedge," Stiles pointed towards the plants framing their garden. "It usually grows in Europe. Did your parents import it? I´ve always wondered."

"I really don´t know," Lydia replied. "I guess I could ask them."

"It´s just so fascinating," Stiles continued. "One characteristic contributing to yew's longevity is that it is able to split under the weight of advanced growth without succumbing to disease in the fracture, as do most other trees." When he noticed how Lydia was looking at him like he had grown a second head, he added: "I´ve read up about a lot of plants during one of my many Wikipedia binges." He stood up from the chair and walked over to the hedge, running his hands over its branches.

"It´s kind of humbling," he mumbled. "To realise that this hedge has the chance of still existing hundreds of years after all of us will be dead."

"I guess," Lydia agreed. "Makes you wonder what all kind of plants could tell you if they were able to communicate with us." She patted Prada on his head. "What kind of events they witnessed."

Stiles greeted her musings only with silence, but Lydia knew that he was thinking about it as well. That was what he did after all: Thinking.

 **ii. plant two: pinus ponderosa**

Scott could hear the blood pumping through his veins. His senses were sharpened, every single hair on his opponent´s skin visible, every shift in his muscle noticeable. He could hear his opponent´s breath as it escaped the other´s mouth, could feel their movements displace the air around them. He could sense every single blade of grass underneath his feet, every twig that broke under his careful concert of steps. Beneath the fragrance of the forest – the bark of the pine trees around them, the herbage growing on the ground, the cleanness of the water burbling along in the little stream behind the clearing – he could smell the odour of the sweat that rolled off their bodies, could feel the heat that emitted from their every move.

Scott could sense Derek´s blow before it even reached him. He stooped down, trying to take a swing at Derek´s now exposed side, but the older werewolf was already two steps ahead of him, shifting aside in one graceful movement, so that Scott´s blow didn't land. Instead, Scott lost his balance and stumbled forward, a lapse of concentration Derek used to wrangle Scott to the ground and keep him there by digging his knee into his back, rendering him unable to wiggle out of Derek´s hold without pain flaring up from where Derek was pressing down on him.

"Dead," Derek just remarked. "I could snap your neck or tear out your spine without you being able to stop me." He let go of Scott and stood up, offering Scott his hand. A while ago Scott would have slapped it aside in derision, unable to accept the help of the person who in his mind had been responsible for his situation. But Scott wasn't that person anymore – at least he liked to think so – so he gratefully took the hand and lifted himself up from the ground.

Mock fighting Derek was always an object lesson in humility. Neither Stiles nor he were able to get one over the older and more experienced werewolf. Derek always seemed to know what they were trying to pull off even before they started to move while he was completely unreadable to them. The longest either of them had managed to hold off Derek had been Scott for one minute which had felt like an eternity.

At least Scott could comfort himself with the knowledge that Stiles was even worse than him when it came to fighting. Apparently becoming a werewolf hadn't fixed his best friend's flailing or his predisposition towards stumbling over his own feet. Scott wasn't that good of a fighter either, but he was on his way there. Last time Derek had even commented that in a real fight he would even survive long enough to give a real fighter the chance to finish off their opponent while they were busy with killing him, which coming from Derek was practically glowing praise.

"Werewolves rip out each other´s spines?" Scott asked dumbfounded.

"It´s one of the few things proven to kill a werewolf permanently," Derek shrugged. "As well as decapitating, tearing out the heart…"

"Thanks, I don´t need the whole list," Scott interrupted him, shuddering at the thought of having to do all those gruesome things.

"Where´s Stiles?" he asked instead.

"He had some business to attend to," Derek replied. "Something with a class mate of yours; Lydia Martin, I believe. He should be here any moment."

"What would he want with Lydia?" Scott wondered out loud. "Is he trying to woo her? That never works out." He sighed. He would need to console his best friend when he inevitably came back heartbroken about another rejection.

"You have to ask him himself," Derek replied. "Listen." Scott followed Derek´s command, hearing the slowly growing louder noise of Roscoe approaching the clearing. Enhanced hearing was awesome, especially when it helped you noticing your mother walking up the stairs before she could find you in compromising situations.

When Roscoe drove up on the gravel path that led towards the Hale house and the clearing, Scott noticed that Lydia was sitting next to Stiles, looking totally unfazed, as if her sitting next to Stiles in his car was an everyday occurrence. Scott´s jaw, meanwhile, dropped. Derek looked as unperturbed as ever.

When Stiles killed the engine and stepped out of the car, Scott was right next to him in an instant.

"Dude," he whispered furiously, drawing out the 'u', the properly express his bewilderment. "How did you get Lydia in your car?"

"She invited herself along," Stiles just shrugged. "Apparently, after telling her about me being a werewolf she wanted to meet the rest of you."

"You told her?!" Scott exclaimed, not even bothering to keep his voice down any longer. "Why would you do that?"

"Because she was already on my case, anyway," Stiles replied, much too calm in Scott´s opinion. "And I didn't want her to find out the same way as Allison did." Scott winced. Low blow, but it pushed the point across. Scott often wondered if Allison would have reacted differently – would still be with him – if he had been honest with her much earlier. Before Kate had dug herself into Allison´s mind and twisted her into someone who helped Kate capturing Derek and him.

"She," Lydia drawled, glaring daggers at the both of them, "is standing right here and can hear every word you´re saying." She huffed, threw her hair over her shoulder and stalked over towards Derek, who looked at the approaching girl like the deer caught in the headlights.

"We haven´t been introduced properly," Lydia greeted the older man, extending her perfectly manicured hand. "I´m Lydia Martin and you´re Derek Hale. I´ve heard so much about you, most of it pretty bad, but people tell stupid rumours about me as well, so I´m not inclined to believe them, anyway." Scott struggled to keep in the laughter that was threatening to spill over his lips when a still befuddled Derek grabbed Lydia´s hand and shook it, probably more out of social conditioning than out of actual intent.

Stiles had no such restraint, snorting with laughter, which earned him an impressive glare from Derek.

"Why are you here?" Derek wanted to know. It sounded abrasive and impolite, but by now Scott had spent enough time with Derek to know that was pretty much his usual mode of expression. Lydia, too, seemed to take Derek´s cold shoulder towards her in stride.

"We´re probably gonna see a lot of each other in the future," she replied. "I thought it´d be better to establish some sort of friendly rapport now instead of later."

"I´m helping Stiles and Scott because they´re part of the supernatural, no matter if they want or not. You don´t need to be here; you´re just a liability," Derek retorted.

"I know," Lydia admitted candidly. "I don´t plan to throw myself headfirst into dangerous situations. I know when I´m outclassed and when not. I don´t want any powers, I don´t want to fight. But your uncle did something to me, that you cannot deny, and whatever it was, it made me part of this world and I don´t want to enter it unprepared." She paused. "I´m not here to ask of you to protect me or to lead when it´s clear that you don´t want to. I…I just don´t want to face this alone. All I´m asking for is consideration. That´s all."

Scott had never seen Lydia acting so humble. Usually she was more like a whirlwind of stylish clothes, perfectly applied make-up and self-confidence, but right now she appeared to be so open and vulnerable. Derek didn't seem to be convinced, though, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"That´s not all," he pointed out. "If you really want this, then better be completely honest."

"I don´t want to be defenceless," Lydia finally admitted. "And I don´t mean physically. I know that I´ll never be able to defeat an opponent in a fair fight, but knowledge is power, too. And I never want to feel like I felt when I was under your uncle´s influence."

For a few moments there was nothing but silence as Derek starred at Lydia, trying to assess the truthfulness of her statement while she stared back as unblinking as the older werewolf. Scott didn't know what either Lydia or Derek saw when they looked in the other´s eyes, but the tension between them seemed to ebb away as if someone had pulled the plug.

"Alright," Derek agreed in the end. "You can stay but let me make this clear: This isn´t some book club or debate team where you discuss academical 'what if's situations from the comfort of your couch. This is about survival."

"All clear," Lydia agreed.

"Wow," Stiles whispered next to him. "I was kinda afraid that they would fight it out and we´d have to sift through the rubble that was previously the prosperous town of Beacon Hill." If looks could kill then his best friend would have died instantly from the two twin glares that were thrown at him in this moment.

Scott felt like things were looking upwards, though.

 **iii. plant three: vitis vinifera**

Sometimes Mellissa wondered if she should involve herself more into her son´s life. If she should try to talk to him more, hope that he would open up to her more and would allow her to participate in his life, at least as much as she could. There had been a time when Scott would tell her everything that happened in his life, from small skirmishes in school to his hopes and dreams about what he wanted to do when he was older. Maybe it was a result of her and Rafael divorcing, but she had always felt like she and Scott were a well-rehearsed team who had each other´s backs.

Mellissa wasn't stupid, though. She knew that with the passage from child to teenager to man came the emancipation from your parents, no matter how much you loved them. She had gone through the same with her own parents; a slow process where she had kept more and more of what was going on her life to herself because she felt like that even with only the best intentions in their hearts her parents wouldn't be able to understand.

But with Scott it felt like there was more than just your child growing up. Ever since he had made first line at lacrosse (and how proud she had been; so proud that it had felt like her chest was about to burst) there was this distance between them that even the tightest hug or the warmest smile couldn't bridge. He was out of the house more often than not, either with his girlfriend (or was it ex-girlfriend now? Scott hadn't told her. He would have not so long ago) or with Stiles.

Mellissa took a sip from the glass of wine. It had been a present from Scott for her last birthday. Not some of the cheap Walmart stuff, but imported from France. He had saved up for it for quite a while, she was sure, but he had done it because he knew how she had always wanted to taste a 'real' wine from Europe.

Maybe she was overthinking, again. Maybe it was just a phase, something that would pass by if she just kept ignoring it. But Mellissa didn't believe that, not even when the thought crossed her mind.

She stood up from where she was sitting on her couch, walking along the length of their living room. Outside the sun was slowly vanishing behind the horizon, plunging the houses of her neighbourhood into its orange light.

Then she heard voices from the other side of the house, and never one to let anything be, Mellissa wandered over into the kitchen, to spy from behind the curtain on what was happening on the street.

Scott stood outside on the sidewalk, but he wasn't alone. Next to him stood Stiles, hands in his pocket, seesawing back and forth on his heels while he listened to what the third person was saying. Mellissa´s eyebrows rose in surprise when she recognised the girl as Lydia Martin. As far as she knew, her son and the girl didn't really frequent the same social circles. But now they were talking like they had always been friends.

Another thing she hadn't known.

She watched her son, laughing at something Stiles had said while Lydia stood beside them, the wind playing with her hair and a small smile on her face. They looked tight-knitted, absorbed into whatever they were talking about. Scott looked happy…content.

Maybe, Mellissa thought, it was time to let Scott go, bit by bit, as every mother on this planet had to sooner or later.


	14. Nero

**i. food one: burger**

He knew that he wasn´t supposed to. He knew that it was in his best interest to desist from what he was doing; that he should resist the temptation, that sweet voice in his mind that run over his soul like warm honey and told him that it was alright, that he shouldn't feel bad about what he was doing, even though deep down he knew that he should.

But he was only human, and above all humans were creatures of the flesh; weak and so easily susceptible to the temptations of this world. At least he was aware of this flaw – one of his many – and could actually try to better himself. That was what he told himself, even though he knew that it wasn't true.

Was he supposed to feel ashamed? To feel guilty for enjoying this as much as he did? Should he seek forgiveness – absolution even? He wondered sometimes, but in the end, he pushed all of it to the back of his mind and sealed it like it was just another evidence locker.

Nobody had to know. Nobody would ever know.

John Stilinski bit into his burger and was barely able to suppress the moan that threatened to escape his mouth as the taste of freshly baked bacon, spicy barbecue sauce, onions and a hint of garlic exploded on his tongue. In this moment the texture of the white bread underneath his fingers felt better than any human touch could and if it had been possible John would have married the burger on the spot.

But, alas, he was too busy devouring it.

His son would pop a blood vessel if he saw him eating such a 'heart attack bomb' as he had coined it, but thank God Stiles wasn't at the precinct, so John could enjoy his forbidden burger in peace. He was sure, though, that Stiles had his informants and spies amongst the deputies which was why John had picked the Burger up himself instead of having it delivered and also why the door to his office was closed and the airing on full blast, so that any traces of burger smell would have vanished once he was finished.

John was pretty sure that at least Tara was on to him, which was bad because he knew that his youngest deputy and his son had their own WhatsApp chat going on. Maybe he could bribe her with the promise of not placing her on any night shifts for the rest of the week if she kept quiet.

Something worth to think about at least.

Thinking about his burger inevitably also led John to thinking about his son. Things at home were still tense sometimes, but not as bad as they had been just a while ago. There were still moments where John was sure that Stiles was keeping something secret from him, still those split-seconds where he looked at his son and didn't recognise the person staring back at him, but they were fewer and far in-between. Stiles seemed to be more…present seemed to be the right word, no longer so closed-off and reclusive. Scott had even been over a few times and they had played their video games like in the good old times.

Stiles also hadn't appeared on any mysterious crime scenes in a while which also did wonders for their strained relationship. There haven't been any incidents at school, either. Whatever his son was currently doing, as long as it wasn't anything illegal or morally wrong, John had decided he would turn a blind eye.

That didn't mean that he wouldn't tell his deputies to keep their eyes out for any Stiles related shenanigans. You could never be too careful with his son.

"Sheriff, the coroner´s report is here and you told me to…" The door opened, and Tara came waltzing into his office as if he had an open-door policy going on – which he had, to be honest. He should definitely change that as soon as possible.

It must have been quite a sight, fearsome Sheriff John Stilinski slowly lowering the burger he was holding with both hands as if he had been caught with something naughty all the while he looked like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Tara meanwhile had a grin on her face that was so wide that it seemed to threaten to split her face into two.

"I guess this means no nightshifts for me this week," she remarked idly, as if they both didn't know that she had John at the balls. From the way she grinned like the cat that caught he canary, she was well aware of that.

"At least I can eat it now without trying to hide," John grumbled and took another bite. "Please continue." Working as police officer you soon developed the ability to eat even during the most disgusting situations. If John stopped eating whenever something horrifying came up, he would have no time to eat at all. During his career he had seen it all and nothing could stop him from eating his food anymore.

"The girl at the pool was Cathy McGrath," Tara began. "She graduated from Beacon Hills High School last year and worked at Whole Foods. It was supposed to be only temporarily until she would go to college in Los Angeles in a few weeks. Which obviously isn't happing now." She cleared her throat. "At first, we all assumed that she died of blood loss because of how much there was around her when we found her at the pool, but the coroner says that she actually drowned."

"She wasn't wet," John frowned.

"No," Tara shook her head, a queasy look on her face. "She drowned on her own blood." John put his burger down. Screw it, he wasn't prepared for that. "Her throat was cut in a way that her blood would also end up in her lungs, which would feel like drowning. The report says that it was ultimately this coupled with the blood loss that killed her. It must have been very painful and cruel, feeling like you are drowning before your brain gives out on you."

"The poor girl," John whispered, suddenly feeling so weighted down by the knowledge how terrifying those last few moments must have been for Cathy as she drowned on her own blood.

"That´s not all," Tara added. "The coroner also found traces of mistletoe in her lungs as well as in her blood." John frowned.

"How would mistletoe get into her blood?" he wondered out loud.

"I don't know, boss," Tara replied.

"Do we know of any new drugs that may contain mistletoe?" John asked.

"I can look it up," Tara said. "I´ll also take a look at Cathy´s stuff. Maybe it´s just a new herbal tea or something. You never know with what crazy things those New Age people come up with."

"Do that," John agreed with her. "Take Donovan with you." Tara pulled a face.

"Do I really need to?" she complained. John just raised an eyebrow at her.

"You may not like him, but he´s still you colleague," John reprimanded her, even though secretly he agreed with her. Donovan was a kind of dick and if the Sheriff could, he would have already fired him. Unfortunately, Donovan did outstanding work and hadn´t yet given him any grounds on which he could fire him.

"You´re only saying that because you agree with me," Tara groused, but she didn't complain any further as she walked out of the office. John sighed and turned back to his burger when his phone started to ring.

Exasperated, he put his burger back down and picked up. "Yes."

"Boss," the voice of the deputy on desk duty said. "We´ve got a missing teenager. Heather Morrigan. Her parents just reported her missing."

John looked at his burger mournfully. Today just wasn't supposed to be their day.

 **ii. food two: pudding**

Stiles didn't really want to go to school, which was a pretty normal statement coming from a teenager, to be honest. Was there really anyone who liked to go back to school every day like Sisyphus had to roll his rock back up the hill every day?

But unlike his peers who just didn't want to stand up early Stiles had a very viable reason for not wanting to enter the nefarious building in front of him. A very good reason, if he said so himself. Namely that he was pretty sure that the two new guys in their class were part of the Alpha Pack.

It had been a nagging suspicion ever since Ms Blake had first introduced them during one of their English lessons. As if electricity had suddenly shot through his body, his wolf had been suddenly at the surface of his mind, barring his teeth and growling as if he wanted to force someone into submission. As the twins had passed his desk, Stiles had to grab onto his desk´s board with all his strength to prevent himself from straight out trying to attack them. There were visible dents in the wood now.

He had felt something when the twins had walked past him. As if the room had suddenly become to small for all their presence, as if it would explode from the power they all wielded underneath their skins. It had been a pretty sobering experience, because unlike his own, the twin´s power had felt sophisticated and controlled while Stiles' was still raw and barely kept in check. He knew that as he was right now, he couldn't win against even one of them, let alone all two.

"Relax," Scott whispered next to him as he clapped Stiles on his back. "They won´t do anything while you´re at school. They´ll at least wait until you´re on your way home."

"Thanks for the encouragement," Stiles deadpanned. Scott just gave him a shit-eating grin.

"You also have me," Scott added.

"That isn't as much of an advantage as you think it is," Stiles pointed out as they made their way across the parking lot. "You aren´t much of a werewolf either."

"Hey, Derek said I´m at least able to hold my own in a fight," Scott protested.

"He also said against a non-moving target like a tree," Stiles teased his best friend. Scott just scowled. They walked on the sidewalk, the benches lined along it occupied by students who still tried to catch a little bit of sun before they were confined into the school buildings for the rest of the day. On the last bench in front of the entrance, Stiles recognised Lydia. The red-head was wearing a lemon-yellow summer dress with a white collar and pumps in the same colour.

Stiles wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to react. They were kind of allies now, he guessed, but did that mean he was allowed to greet and talk to Lydia at school? Was he supposed to ignore her, or should he keep up the pretence of trying to court her, even though any kind of romantic spark between them had fizzled out by now? They hadn't talked about it at all and now Stiles was literally flailing.

"You´re allowed to talk to me, you know?" Lydia said in lieu of a greeting, not even bothering to avert her head from the sun in order to look at him.

"Ah, that´s good to know, I suppose," Stiles spluttered, scratching the back of his head. "I didn't know if you wanted me to."

"I really don't care what others might think, so you might as well talk to me," Lydia shrugged. "We aren´t besties, of course, but we´re also more than acquaintances."

"I guess," Stiles agreed.

"You´re both so complicated," Scott said, rolling his eyes. "Why don´t we just go along with our day as usual and if you meet you can great each other like civilised beings and maybe even talk to each other. No one expects you to suddenly cling to each other like glue."

"Since when did you become the sensible one?!" Stiles exclaimed in shock.

"Let´s be real here, he´s always been the sensible one," Lydia pointed out, much to Stiles' dismay. "Remember incident number three in middle school?"

"And we have to go," Stiles interrupted her while he tried to shove Scott into the direction of the school´s entrance. "We don´t want to miss our first lesson."

"We´ve got Harris in our first lesson," Scott pointed out, slowly starting to move. "You hate Harris."

"Not now," Stiles retorted. Not when he needed to get away before Lydia could start with incident number three from middle school. Even Harris was better than that.

"So, what´s the plan?" Scott asked while they made their way towards their lockers. "You know –" he lowered his voice "- should we meet the alphas?"

"You know that whispering is absolutely unnecessary because they can hear us anyway if they´re around?" Stiles pointed out. Still, he looked up and down the hallways, trying to discern if the infernal twins were in sight.

"Yeah, but I don't feel comfortable talking about it out loud," Scott defended himself. "So, what are we gonna do?"

"Nothing," Stiles replied. When Scott opened his mouth – probably to protest – Stiles continued: "We´re both not good enough to handle them on our own. We – with which I mean myself – are doing some background research first."

"So, I´m just supposed to do nothing?" Scott questioned.

"Yep," Stiles answered. "And now stop questioning me. You´re supposed to fall in line behind me because I have the awesome powers of alphahood." Scott didn't look quite convinced – he outright laughed at Stiles! – but at least for now the discussion was shelved.

As usual chemistry was pretty horrible to suffer through for sixty minutes. Not only because Harris was his usual asshole-ish self who delighted in humiliating his students, but also because ever since Stiles had turned, his sense of smell was especially sensitive. This meant that the smell of the countless chemicals – most of them toxic or otherwise damaging – was hundred times worse for him than it was for the human students. The miasma of rotten eggs, oil, sulphur, chlorine and dozens of other compounds invaded his nose and made him feel like he was about to double over with sickness. Stiles had a lot more sympathy for how distracted and cranky Scott had been during the early times of his existence as werewolf.

High School in general had already been disgusting when he had been human, but now as a wolf it was even more so.

Fortunately, even though it did feel different, time did actually pass and after the morning lessons were finally over, he and Scott found themselves at their usual table in the cafeteria. From where he was sitting, Stiles could also see Lydia. The red-head just nodded at him when she noticed his gaze, but otherwise kept to herself and her group of friends.

"At least they got chocolate pudding today," Scott pointed out quite happily. Stiles looked at the brown goo on his tablet and couldn't quite find it in himself to share his best friend´s enthusiasm for the cafeteria´s choice of desert.

"Does it even taste like chocolate?" Stiles wanted to know, well aware of all the other times the school had tried to give the students a 'treat'. Scott took his spoon and carefully extracted a mouthful of the pudding out of the plastic cup. He put it in his mouth and chewed on it, all the while Stiles stared at him intensely and waited for a reaction. Finally, Scott swallowed it down.

"Tastes like chocolate," he summarised. "Actually, it´s quite good." A took another spoonful.

"It´s a desert, you´re supposed to eat it at the very end," Stiles pointed out, very much aware of the hypocrisy of such a statement coming from him. From the way Scott gave him his 'are you shitting me' expression, his best friend felt the same.

He just opened his mouth – probably to point it out to Stiles – when two figures approached their table. Before either of them could even react, the alpha twins had already seated themselves next to them; one at Stiles' and the other at Scott´s side.

His wolf was surging to the forefront of his mind again. Stiles' control hung on a thin threat as he wrestled the instincts of his wolf side _(tear, rip, shred, defend)_ into submission. It was as if his whole body was suddenly engulfed by this unbearable heat that could only be released through violence. If either of the twins would have even said something – a single word was enough – Stiles would have snapped and attacked them on the spot.

They obviously sensed that because neither of them spoke.

"This table is occupied," Scott pointed out, more or less helpful. At least he didn't look like he was about to literarily shred into the newcomers to their table. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles could see Lydia watching what was going on at their table with rapt attention, a look of slight alarm on her face.

"There´s only two of you," one of the twins retorted. Ethan and Aiden, but to each of Stiles' senses they felt like one and the same person. There was no difference in their scent, no visible mark that set them apart. Well, one of them had a slightly different hair cut than the other.

"It´s still only polite to ask if you can sit down before actually doing it," Stiles entered the conversation. By now he was confident that he wouldn't attack either of them on the spot.

"What would you have against us sitting down here?" twin number two asked, all faux-innocent. Stiles gave him his best 'are you real' expression. "We´re just newly arrived students who try to connect with their peers."

"Okay, we all know that´s a literal lie," Stiles replied. "I don't know which of you is Ethan or Aiden, but I do know what you are and why you´re here." Twin number one just shrugged and bit into his sandwich, while twin number two just stared at Stiles.

"So, is this some kind of intimidation thing?" Scott wanted to know. "It´s not really working, though." Leave it to Scott to sound apologetic about the fact that they weren't intimidated by two members of the most fearsome werewolf pack west of the Mississippi.

"You would know if we were trying to intimidate you," twin number two spoke. "This is just us getting to know each other."

"Then why don´t you tell us something about yourselves?" Stiles jeered. "Maybe start with the pack you murdered? I´ve heard that's the way to earn yourself a membership for the pack you´re currently in. There must be a special kind of hell for people like you."

"You know nothing!" twin number one snapped at him, red flashing through his eyes before they settled back to his brownish colour.

"I hit a nerve, I see," Stiles said smugly. "So, why don't you two move along and leave us alone."

"You´ll regret this," twin number one seethed. "You won´t stand a chance against us." Before he could say anything else, though, twin number two steered him away, leaving Scott and Stiles sitting alone again at their table.

"That was, like, really unnerving," Stiles admitted, his heart still beating so fast that it felt like it would burst out of his chest at any moment.

"It´s really sad," Scott commented, absorbed in thoughts. "They´re not much older than we are and yet…"

"Stop right there," Stiles interrupted his best friend´s musings. "If we start emphasising with them, we won´t survive this." He swallowed. "We can´t see them as anything else but as our enemies." Scott looked at him like someone had kicked a puppy right in front of him, but in the end, he nodded, albeit very subdued.

"Have you seen the new principal?" Stiles changed the topic. "I´ve heard he started today, but he hasn't even given a speech or something."

"Didn't you listen to what Harris said during chemistry?" Scott wanted to know, and Stiles just looked at him as if just asking if Stiles was listening to anything Harris had to say was stupid.

"So, tell me!" Stiles ordered Scott when the latter didn't just continue.

"The new principal is going to introduce himself tomorrow before lessons. Presence is mandatory."

"Ugh," Stiles moaned. "Well, he can´t be worse than his predecessor, can he?"

 **iii. food three: pills**

Scott didn't know why he had been called out of class in order to visit the principal's office. As far as he was aware neither he nor Stiles had done anything which would warrant getting to know the man on his first day at Beacon Hill High. As he was waiting in the anteroom on one of those ugly as sin and deeply uncomfortable chairs to be called in, he went through all the things he could say in his and Stiles' defence. It was probably Jackson´s fault anyway, so all he had to do was explain the tumultuous history between the three of them and promise amendments so that the principal would turn a blind eye towards them on his first day.

After what felt like an eternity, the door opened. The man standing in the doorway didn't look very intimidating, to be honest: He wasn't very big, maybe five and a half feet, and not very muscular either. Which was probably because he was also old, his sparse white hair only covering the side of his hair. Still, there was something hard, unflinching, about the man. Maybe the way he so rigidly stood in the doorway, his posture more alike to military personnel than a teacher.

"Scott," he spoke with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Why don't you come in?" Scott stood up and followed the principal into his office. The man took a seat behind the massive wooden desk while Scott took one of the two chairs that were standing in front of it.

"Am I in trouble?" Scott blurted out, not able to stand the tension any longer.

"Oh, no," the principal laughed. "Far from it, actually." Scott let out a breath of relief.

"Then why am I here?" Scott wondered.

"Let me just introduce myself," the principal replied. "I´m Gerard Argent."

"Argent?" Scott repeated with wide eyes. "Like Allison…"

"She´s my granddaughter," Mr. Argent – and man, that was gonna be complicated in his head, because Allison´s dad was also Mr. Argent. So maybe he should go with Sr. and Jr.? – replied with a fond look on his face.

"The reason why you´re here is," Mr. Argent Sr. continued, "because I wanted to personally assure you that your past dalliance with my daughter will have no influence on my actions when it comes to you and your friends."

"Thanks, I guess," Scott replied, unsure what he was supposed to say.

"I also wanted to meet the boy who had such an effect on my granddaughter," Mr. Argent Sr. said. "That she would still cry and yearn for you, even though she adamantly states that it´s over between the two of you. Only a man of certain calibre leaves such a lasting impression on a young woman."

"She still thinks about me?" Scott asked with bated breath. Maybe he still had a chance with Allison?

"Oh, she tries to hide it, but it´s still there," Mr. Argent Sr. replied. He opened his mouth to say something else, but suddenly he started to cough violently. His whole body was wrecked by the tremors running through him and Scott was afraid that the man would die on him. Still coughing Mr. Argent Sr. grabbed a small box standing on his desk, opened it and threw one of the many white pills that were revealed to be contained within into his mouth. The coughing abated seconds afterwards.

"I´m sorry that you had to see that," the principal apologised.

"It´s alright," Scott assured him.

"As I said, you still have a chance with my Allison. You just have to use it," Mr. Argent Sr. told him. "But I´ve already kept you away from class long enough. Just think about what I said."

"I will," Scott promised. Mr. Argent Sr. just smiled at him benignly.

As he turned around and left the principal´s office, he didn't see the smile slowly vanishing from Gerard Argent´s face.


	15. Dark Harbour

**i. shape one: oval**

It was odd to think about how much only a few days could change. How a sleepy, little town could turn into a supernatural horror show. How the consequences of villainous deeds committed in the past suddenly resurfaced again to sweep them away. How a harmless, fluffy friendship could suddenly turn into a minefield of things you shouldn't, couldn't and weren't supposed to say, always fearing that one false word would betray you.

How quickly trust could evaporate when you didn't work for it.

The sun was out, shining bright down on the lacrosse field which grass looked so much greener under the radiant rays. A few birds could be heard twittering from the school's roof and the surrounding trees, even if there weren't much. Students were milling around, some lounging on the grass, others walking in groups, heads stuck together and talking. Every now and then a loud laugh from one of the groups would echo over the field or someone would shout the name of someone they noticed on the other side of the area.

There was still a little time before lessons would resume for the afternoon and everyone was intent on getting as much fresh air and sunlight before they had to return unto the catacombs of their school, confined again for another four hours.

Lydia stood on the edge of the lacrosse field, her books clutched tightly to her chest as she let her gaze wander over the sport area, searching for one particular person. A short breeze flared up and ran through her hair. It smelled of morning dew and freshly cut grass and a little bit of the sea, even if it was a hundreds of miles away from Beacon Hills.

Maybe the last one was just her imagination.

Lydia was aware that some people were staring at her, whispering about her behind her back as she just stood there. The attack on her person, her subsequent stay in the hospital and her 'psychotic break' when she had aimlessly wandered through Beacon Hills couldn't be kept secret in a town so small as Beacon Hills. There was always someone who told someone else who told someone else, until practically everyone knew. Maybe a nurse had talked, or a police officer.

It didn't matter to Lydia. They didn't matter. It may hurt, like a thousand tiny paper cuts on her skin, but every time she stood in the girls' bathroom in front of the mirror, she reminded herself that it wouldn't last forever. Once she graduated, she would leave this godforsaken town for something else – something better – where no one would know about this time of her life.

It didn't matter. They didn't matter.

Finally, Lydia spotted the person she had been looking for: Allison was sitting on the bleachers, dotting something in her notebook. She was sitting all alone and apart from everything else, as if there was an invisible bubble around her that kept people from approaching her or even sitting down on the bleachers themselves.

It was a stark reminder that Lydia wasn't the only person everyone was whispering about. The student body also talked about Allison's psychopathic aunt who had been found out to have burned down the house of the venerable Hale family with everyone still in it. Apparently that was even worse than having a mental breakdown. Now everyone gave Allison a wide berth in the hallways as if she would just start to kill people when they didn't give her enough space.

Lydia could emphasise with that.

"Hey," she greeted her friend after she had made her way over, taking the few steps up to reach the girl. Allison looked up from her notebook, a pained smile on her lips. She was probably wondering why Lydia was even here.

Only a little bit discouraged, Lydia sat down next her friend.

"How are you?" Lydia asked. A stupid question, but a question she asked nevertheless.

"Not good," Allison replied honestly.

"Me neither," Lydia admitted. "I mean, it's been worse, but I've also been better."

"I've seen you with Scott and Stiles," Allison remarked, a feint accusation in her voice.

"He misses you, you know," Lydia replied. Both of them knew who she was talking about.

"I've got his letter," Allison spoke. "And I'll talk to him, but only when I worked through some things first." Lydia didn't really know what Allison was talking about, but she was glad to hear that her friend was making some steps towards mending her relationships with the people around her. "I thought you didn't like Stiles."

Lydia sighed. She had hoped that she could leave this particular topic untouched, instead focusing on repairing their friendship, but apparently Allison wouldn't let it go.

"I didn't," Lydia spoke, carefully thinking about what to say next. "But there were some…developments and now he's a lot more tolerable to be around." Allison just hummed nonchalantly.

"It's dangerous," she warned Lydia. "Scott and Stiles have been involved in some dangerous stuff. Maybe you should keep your distance." It warmed her heart to hear that Allison was still concerned about her safety, even if it was unwarranted.

"There's no need," Lydia told her. "I know."

It was only two words – five letters, two seconds – but they had meaning far beyond. They were the possibility to bridge the distance between Lydia and Allison, to mend what had slowly fractured over the last few weeks, but they could also break what was already brittle. It was an admission, a confession, that Lydia had become part of the world that Allison had been born in, too, only that she had people at her side while Allison had not.

"How?" Allison wanted to know.

"The attack during prom," Lydia replied. "I never believed that it was a mountain lion, but before I could get myself into danger, someone stepped in and told me."

"Scott?" Allison asked.

"No," Lydia shook her head. "Stiles."

"I can't imagine how he's taking all of this," Allison mused. "I mean, I received training since I've been a little girl, even if I didn't know for what, but he's just a human amidst monsters." A twinge shot through Lydia's heart. She carefully refrained from telling Allison about Stiles' change of species.

"Is that really what you think of them?" she asked instead. "Monsters."

"The alpha killed several people," Allison spoke. "He wanted to kill me just for who I was. I was innocent, but he would have killed me. I don't know Derek, but he was willing to kill his own uncle for power. Both of these things seem pretty monstrous to me."

"Not all monsters do monstrous things," Lydia retorted. For a moment she wanted to shake Allison and remind her of what her aunt had done and that Peter's and Derek's motivations had come from their circumstances and not their species, but she refrained, remembering that Allison didn't know the whole story – hadn't been told.

"But all I've met have done it so far," Allison said.

"Even Scott?" Lydia wanted to know. Allison looked conflicted, chewing on her bottom lip. "They're just people as you and me. Capable of good as well as bad."

"I know that," Allison exclaimed. "I…I just feel so fucking lonely. My parents won't tell me anything, are constantly fighting and I can't go to them for answers. My peoples skills are shit, because I couldn't even tell that my aunt was a raging psychopath and then there's my grandpa who slinks around at home, just observing and driving me up the wall with his nonchalant observation that seem to have several meanings that I never get." By now a few tears were rolling down her face.

"Everything's gone to hell for me ever since we came into this town. Ever since this whole supernatural shitshow started and I blame them for it. I know it's not fair, I know it's illogical and wrong, but I hate this whole world for destroying my family and I feel so bad for feeling that."

Lydia kept silent after that revelation. She recognised now that Stiles had been right: Allison was in no shape to become part of their little club. She was in no state of mind to make decisions that weren't tainted by her aversion of the supernatural.

But that didn't mean that Lydia would just let her go. She wouldn't make the mistake of alienating Allison even further by cutting her off. She needed a friend now more than ever and Lydia intended to be that friend.

"I'm here for you," she said, slinging her arm over Allison's shoulder. "You aren't alone."

"Even if I'm a mess right now?"

"Especially then," Lydia assured her. "But maybe you should talk to Scott? He's moping all over the place and it's ruining my aesthetic." Allison smiled at her – faintly, but it was there and it was full of warmth.

"I will," she promised Lydia. "I miss him, too."

 **ii. shape two: square**

School was finished and Stiles was all the more happy for it. He had successfully evaded both Harris and the alpha twins for the whole day which meant that his blood pressure wasn't bursting through the roof and no one had bothered him about anything supernatural at all.

When he had woken up today, Stiles had decided that today would be fun only. No world-ending events, no terrible crimes and no gruesome training at the hands of Derek, which he had yet to tell the older werewolf, but Stiles was sure that he would totally agree with him. Who would say no to a free day? In this economy?

That didn't mean that Derek would be able to get rid of him for the day, though. No, Stiles had planned something, for which he had researched the last few days whenever he could steal a minute and now he would set it all in motion. If Derek played along, that is.

"Hey, sourwolf," he piped up after Derek had answered his phone.

"Don't call me that," Derek replied gruffly, but it lacked the heat, so Stiles just smiled. "What do you want?"

"Well, it has come to my attention that your current accommodations aren't that accommodating, so today we'll go house hunting," Stiles proclaimed. For a moment there was just silent on the other end of the line, then:

"Stiles," Derek growled. "I'm a grown-ass adult, I don't need a teenager to help me rent an apartment."

"Then why are you still staying at a motel?" Stiles retorted. "Beacon Motel, really, Derek? Only the truly desperate or the truly horny stay there. Which are you?" Derek didn't deem that worthy a reply.

"Come on," Stiles insisted. "I've already made a few appointments with realtors during study period – by the way, the name Hale really does open doors, literarily."

"You just want to snoop around in homes you would otherwise never get into," Derek pointed out drily.

"Well, yeah, that, too, but I also wanna help you," Stiles admitted. "Half the time my dad gets called during night shifts it's because of something that happened at the Beacon's. You shouldn't stay there, it's no good."

"Besides," he added. "It would be terribly rude to not show after I've made all those appointments for you." Stiles could just imagine Derek murderously staring at his phone, just daring it to go up in flames through the power of his gaze.

"Fine," he finally relented. "Just tell me where I need to be."

"Wait, wait, I need to come with you," Stiles replied panicked. "What if one of those realtors tries to pull one over you?"

"I think I'll manage," Derek told him. The bastard was totally enjoying this, Stiles was sure.

"Please, let me come with you," Stiles whined. "There's even some not over-the-top stuff that you might actually like besides the over-the-top stuff I wanted to see."

"So, you admit that you just want to go house hunting yourself?" Even over the phone Stiles could practically hear the smugness in the other man's voice.

"Alright, you got me, I wanna get inside those apartments," Stiles admitted. "So, would you please take me with you? Pretty, pretty please?"

His desperate plea must have worked, for – after exhaling a deep sigh – Derek just asked: "Where are you?"

Stiles told him and twenty minutes later Derek's black Camaro pulled up next to him.

"Admit it, you love the attention this car gets you," Stiles greeted the older werewolf as he dropped into the passenger seat.

"I could throw you out of the car whenever I want," Derek threatened him. "You're a werewolf, you'd survive it."

"Okay, okay." Stiles lifted his hands in mock-surrender. "No joking about your car, I got it." A smile snuck on Stiles' face. "So, wanna guess where we'll go first?"

"I'm certain you'll tell me anyway," Derek replied. Stiles face fell.

"You're no fun," he pouted. "Anyway, our first stop is on the other side of the town: The Smithson Mansion."

"Isn't it supposed to be haunted?" Derek questioned as he put the car into first gear and started to drive. "Besides, what do I want with a mansion?"

"Well, I thought the wide grounds that come with the house would be perfect to conceal any supernatural shenanigans," Stiles told him. "Besides, it isn't that big: it got eight rooms, two of which are bathrooms. It's only called a mansion because it was the biggest house in Beacon Hills when it was build. As for the whole haunted gig…well, to be honest, I didn't really think it was a real thing? Are ghosts a thing?"

"I don't know," Derek admitted. "But I do know that there are magics that can make houses appear to be haunted. They're not very…nice."

"Well, we just have to see when we're there," Stiles shrugged.

The house definitely wasn't what send shivers down their spines. No, it was the realtor Deborah ("Call me Debby.") who eyed Derek as if he was an especially mouth-watering piece of meat who did that. The fake-blonde led them through the house, the clattering of her high-heels echoing from the high walls, while one fake-laugh after another left her bright red lips. She left out not a single chance to brush up against Derek, careful to direct his gaze towards her fake breasts, which Derek stalwartly refused to do.

Stiles tried to run interference by asking questions about the house, which Deborah – much to his chagrin – could actually answer competently, albeit she seemed to get more annoyed by him the more she asked.

"Who is he, anyway?" she asked Derek as if Stiles wasn't even there.

"I'm his sugar daddy," Derek deadpanned. "I plan to rent this house just for him, so that he can invite all his friends and party." Stiles tried to stifle his laughter while Deborah just stared at him scandalised.

The tour ended soon after that.

"By, Debby!" Stiles called after her as the realtor closed her car's door with much more force than necessary and drove off in a huff.

"I guess we can strike this house off the list," Stiles mused. Independently of Deborah, the house just didn't feel right. It was much too grandiose and serious for Derek. It was firmly rooted in its past, its interior still nearly the same as it had been when it had been build. Stagnant, preserving what had been instead of offering the possibility to grow and change, it just wasn't a good fit.

Derek just nodded.

"So, how's your quest to finish your higher education going?" Stiles inquired as they made their way towards the next object he had picked out.

"You still remember that?" Derek asked, probably surprised that Stiles still remembered that off-hand comment he had made during their family dinner.

"Of course," Stiles boasted proudly. "Architecture."

"I've found some online courses I could take to finish my degree," Derek told him. "I'm currently waiting for a reply from Columbia. Should they agree, I'll just need to get back to New York for my final exams next semester."

"That's great!" Stiles proclaimed, beaming at Derek.

The next object was an apartment in one of the few bigger apartment complexes Beacon Hills had to offer. It wasn't as big as in, say, New York or Los Angeles, but in a town that mainly consisted of detached houses, everything over three stories counted as big. This particular building had twelve floors, a concierge, an in-house pool, an underground garage, a gym and an outside tennis court.

This time their realtor was an about thirty year old male who introduced himself as Mitch. Of course he would. His teeth were as white as snow while his skin was somehow between sand and caramel from too many visits to the solarium. He was pretty laid-back, not even battering an eye when Derek showed up with Stiles in tow and showed them the apartment without much of a fuss. He told them what they needed to know, answered question but was otherwise unobtrusive while Derek and Stiles looked around the rooms.

"What do you think?" Stiles asked while they stood in what was supposed to be the bedroom, looking through the wide window front onto the town. They could even see the outskirts of the preserve from here.

"Too open," Derek replied. "There's glass everywhere and have you noticed the security. Cameras everywhere and the concierge never leaves his post." Stiles knew what Derek meant: There was no way you could hide supernatural happenings here, not with cameras on the floors, in the elevators and the lobby. Besides, they were on the ninth floor with only the elevator and an emergency staircase as escape routes.

Derek told Mitch that he wouldn't take the apartment, which the man took in stride, again. Stiles wondered if there was anything that could make Mitch show any other emotion but professional friendliness.

"Why are you even doing this?" Derek wanted to know as he drove them to the third and last object.

"Because it's fun," Stiles told him. A little bit nervous, he ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn't bothered to cut it since he had become an alpha, the buzzcut slowly growing out. He had cut his hair down when his mother had died – a tragic, but pivotal moment in his life – but he had been thinking that maybe he should commemorate the second with another change. He felt like changing.

"The last weeks have been really stressful and I thought that looking for a place to live for you would allow a little bit of fun and relaxation while also helping you," he continued. "I know you could have done it yourself – you are a grown adult, after all, even if it doesn't show often." Derek flashed his teeth at him, but Stiles ignored it. "It's a little bit of an escape for me, too. Just driving around, looking at houses with realtors who aren't after your life, just your money, without much of a care in the world."

He swallowed. "Because once I get back, there's Scott who kinda looks at my for guidance, Lydia who can't wait to riddle me with questions, my father who's constantly on my back, the Alpha pack whose motives I don't know yet, a ton of research I have to do…" By this time Stiles had run out of air, so he just took in a deep breath. "It's just nice to not think about that for a while."

Derek didn't say anything in return, but Stiles got the feeling that he understood, nevertheless. The rest of the way they spend in companionable silence.

The last object they were looking at didn't have a realtor coming with it. The owner just gave them the keys once they rang at the door and told them to bring it back once they were finished. The other apartments in the building had occupants, but most of the time they weren't actually living there. The lofts were targeted as easy getaways for the stressed out West Coasters, so most of the time they stood empty.

The loft opened up to a wide and spacious room which main highlight consisted of a wide window front that overlooked Beacon Hills and also had a small balcony attached to it. A spiral staircase led up to the next floor which consisted of a bed- and a bathroom. As Stiles walked around the room, he wondered how a space could feel so wide and yet so safe. Maybe it was because the walls were build from massive stone, unlike the former apartment they had looked at where the walls had been so thin that Stiles had been able to hear through them. The walls here were so thick that no noise would get through them.

"I like it," he told Derek sincerely. "It's got this open layout down here where you can entertain guests or something." He didn't really know if Derek even had any friends to entertain. Well, Stiles would definitely drop by. "And upstairs you got your own private space where no one bothers you." He walked over to one of the walls. "Also, a flatscreen would look so cool over here. The ultimate cinema experience."

"It'd definitely beat the 15-inch of my MacBook," Derek commented nonchalantly. He took another few steps, circling around his own axis as if he wanted to take in every square-inch of the loft before he made a decision.

"I'll take this," he finally announced.

"Fuck yeah!" Stiles exclaimed, raising his fist into the air. "And you thought all of this was just a waste of time. Next stop: Shopping at IKEA!"

"I'll not let you chose anything of my furniture," Derek said, instantly putting a stop to every of Stiles' plans.

"Alright," Stiles conceded. "I guess you're allowed to choose the furniture of your own home."

"Thank you so much for your generosity," Derek deadpanned.

A knock on the door interrupted their by now familiar bickering.

"Ms Blake, what are you doing here?" Stiles exclaimed, a little bit confused. "I promise you'll have my essay by tomorrow, no need to stalk me for it."

Standing in the doorway, Ms Blake just smiled fondly at him. "I'm not here for your essay on Macbeth from you, though I'm looking forward to your unique insights on the play." She shook her head. "My apartment's down the hallway. I saw the open door and guessed that there was another viewing taking place and I thought I'd introduce myself to who may become my new neighbour."

She stepped into the loft towards Derek and extended her hand. "I'm Jennifer Blake, English teacher at Beacon High and the only living soul on this floor."

"Derek Hale," Derek introduced himself. "What about he other apartments?"

"Oh, one belongs to a hedge fond manager who only comes here a few weeks a year to go hiking, another is owned by an artist from Los Angeles who only comes when he needs the quiet and seclusion for a new work of his and the last is the second home of Ms Darcy which she's only renting so that her tryst with Coach Finstock isn't discovered."

Stiles definitely needed brain bleach for the last one. That was horrible.

"So, are you going to take this flat?" Ms Blake inquired.

"Yes, I am," Derek confirmed.

"I'm so happy to hear that," Ms Blake admitted. "I'll feel so much safer already knowing that someone else will be here should ever the need arise." She gifted Derek her brightest smile. "I guess, I'll leave you to it, then." She nodded at both of them and turned around.

"Oh, Stiles," she said sweetish. "Your father called and told me you don't have a dog, so don't believe that excuse will work a second time." And then she was gone.

"Aw, shit," Stiles cursed.

"What did you tell her?" Derek wanted to know with a raised eyebrow.

"I didn't do my homework, so I told her my dog ate it," Stiles admitted. Derek just shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Let's go and sign that lease."


	16. Foundation

**AN:** I just wanted to inform all of you that I only post some of my stories on . My main site is AO3 where I have published all of my works under the same username.

* * *

 **i. state of mind: hopeful**

Scott's mother had been very understanding as of lately.

He didn't know why, but usually she asked more questions, demanded more attention, but since a few days ago, Scott had the feeling that his mother had become more laid-back, more in tune with herself, like in those movies where the lead-woman finds the secret to inner happiness and peace.

Don't get him wrong, she still hounded him for his homework and forced him to clean his room, but there was a certain sense of piece to her that hadn't been there before. The stress that always lured underneath in every gesture, in every word, was gone, replaced instead by certainty.

It was a weird change of pace, because ever since his dad had left them, his mother had always been stressed: Stressed by the bills that needed to be paid, stressed by the shift schedule at the hospital that wouldn't allow her to be home with Scott, stressed by neighbours who still secretly whispered behind her back about her divorce and even sometimes stressed by Scott himself, when he brought home another subpar grade or a story of another shenanigan he and Stiles had been up to.

The bitter, stinging scent of her stress had mellowed out and was slowly fading behind her natural smell, Scott was able to recognise, now that had the advantage of his werewolf senses.

Derek's lessons were useful for something at least.

"Has something changed?" he had asked his mother one day.

"What makes you think that?" she had replied. Scott had just shrugged.

"Don't know," he had admitted. "You seem…different somehow." His mother had just smiled at him in this annoying motherly way, a small smile on her face with fondness in her eyes; that particular expression that told Scott that she loved him very much but he would need to figure it out on his own.

"Just had a realisation," she had replied and then she had continued preparing her cupcakes.

As he laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling, Scott wondered what kind of realisation that could have been. He himself had had quite a few of his own over the last few weeks and each had changed him a little bit. Made him become someone else bit by bit by bit.

Scott didn't like those philosophical questions. They were more suited to Stiles, who could come up with the most ridiculous answers, or his boss Deaton, who more often than not, spoke as if he had invented philosophy himself, but they just weren't made for him.

Scott had no illusions, he was more of a simple kind of guy. Not stupid, just more hands-on. He believed in things he could see, things he could change; not in things that were just concepts, things that had no impact on his life. If he could act, he acted, if he could help, he helped – he didn't believe that you should think much about these things, because what if you contemplated to long, hesitated too much and then a chance went by unused, an opportunity to help went untaken?

His heroes didn't ponder before they helped people. Captain America, Superman and the others offered help when it was needed and didn't hold back because of tactical reasons. Of course, there were people around them that wanted them to wait, to hesitate, but they never did. Scott didn't want to be someone who hesitated in the wrong moment.

He was glad that he had Stiles for that. Stiles planned, pondered, contemplated but more in a Batman kinda way and not like those people in the movies that would see whole cities destroyed while they explored every possibility they could think of. Stiles was much better suited to the role of alpha than Scott would ever be and he was thankful for it.

Scott could enjoy the benefits of being a werewolf without shouldering the responsibilities of also being an alpha.

He was torn out of his thoughts when his ears picked up the sound of someone walking down the street. Suddenly the person came to a halt, then the squeaky sound of their garden gate opening and small feet threading over gravel. Scott was so fixated on those sounds that the ringing of their doorbell tore through his head like an explosion, forcing him to close his eyes and press his jaw together in an attempt to quieten his mind.

"Oh, Allison, how lovely to see you," he could hear his mother from downstairs.

Allison!? She was here, in front of his house? His heart started to beat faster and with one swift jump Scott stood in the middle of his room. Quickly, his gaze darted around the room, taking in the slightly chaotic appearance of it: A few used pieces of clothing were flung across the floor and Scott picked them up instantly before stuffing them all in his closet. His smelly lacrosse gear was put into his ensuite bathroom where Scott also applied a little bit of cologne on his throat, even though the smell of the open bottle nearly made him gag.

He hoped Allison would like it.

"Scott is in his room, go upstairs, first on the right," his mother told Allison. Shit, he had missed what they had spoken about. What if his mother told Allison something embarrassing about him?

He could hear Allison walking up the stairs. One last look into the mirror, checking if everything was in order, and then Scott flung himself on his bed, trying to look as casual as possible while he was hyperventilating inwardly.

The door to his room was opened and Allison's heavenly scent flooded his room. The shampoo she used smelling like fresh strawberries and vanilla, feint traces of the oil she used to grease her bow, the earthy tones of her make-up and the unmistakable scent of carnation that belonged to Allison like she belonged to him.

"Hi, Allison," Scott greeted her, a hopeful note in his voice.

She looked radiant today. She always did in Scott's opinion. Her clothes always complimented her, be they tight fitting or really loose. She could wear everything and still be the most beautiful person in the room. Not even Lydia could hold a candle against her (not that he would ever tell Stiles that, but here in his mind those thoughts were safe).

"Hi, Scott," she greeted back hesitantly as she closed the door behind her.

"Do you want to sit?" Scott offered, skidding to the side, so that Allison could sit down next to him and still leave some space between them. Allison had wanted space, so Scott would give her that, even if it was only a few inches between them on his bed.

A small smile on her lips, Allison sat down next to him, hands next to her thighs.

"Did you get my letter?" Scott asked eagerly.

"I did," Allison replied. "It was very thoughtful. So many things became clear after you explained them. It's a pity we couldn't talk it out before…everything happened." She started fidgeting with her fingers.

"How's Stiles?" she finally asked. "You wrote that he's the alpha now?"

"Oh, he's fine," Scott told her. "He takes to it like a duck to water."

"And it isn't dangerous?" Allison wanted to know. "He isn't…"

"I don't know anyone who's more in control of himself than Stiles," Scott told her sincerely. "I don't think he has lost control even once." Allison just nodded.

"I just don't…I don't want there to be a reason for my father to go after him, or you," she whispered.

"Of course there won't," Scott promised her. "There won't be anything like what happened with Peter." Allison seemed to be calmed down by Scott's confident assurance.

"He doesn't know, by the way," Allison told him. "That Stiles is the new alpha. No one in my family knows. I burned the letter after reading it." She sent him a reassuring smile. Scott nodded. He didn't believe that the Argents would go after Stiles, not now that it had been revealed that it had been Kate all along, but he was also aware of how much Stiles liked secrecy. A thing less his friend could scold him for.

"So, you're here to talk about Stiles?" Scott joked, trying to lighten the mood a little bit. A small smile tugged at the corners of Allison's mouth.

"I had a talk with Lydia," she told him. "And it helped me realise that the situation as it was only made us both miserable without changing anything." She swallowed. "There are many things that went wrong and in hindsight I shouldn't have blamed you for so many of it. We're just teenagers, none of us should have to deal with all of this. But I'm also in no state of mind to just go on where we left off."

Scott could feel his heart clench.

"But I don't want to lose you," Allison continued.

"You'll never lose me," Scott interrupted, because he needed to make that clear to her. He would always look out for her.

Allison smiled at him. "Maybe we can't be together right now, but we can still be friends. We can start there and slowly ease our way back into how we were."

"That sounds fine to me," Scott replied. She wasn't breaking up with him! No, she wanted him back. Friends she had said, but Scott would just need to show her that he was still the same guy she had fallen in love with in the first place and things would get back together as they should be.

"I'm glad," Allison admitted. "I was afraid you'd want more than I was willing to give."

"I have to respect your choices," Scott replied. "Both my mom and Stiles would kill me if I didn't. They lectured me about it often enough." He shrugged. "Besides, I was there when Stiles had one of his hyper focus phases on feminism."

"I can just imagine that," Allison laughed. She looked on the clock. "Do you, maybe, want to go to drink some coffee with me? To celebrate the start of our new friendship."

"Of course!" Scott exclaimed.

 **ii. state of mind: contemplating**

 _Bong._

The red bouncy ball collided with the wall in front of him and was flung back towards Stiles who caught it easily with his right hand. It was easy now, with his werewolf strength and reflexes.

 _Bong._

Plaster flaked off the spot on the wall against which Stiles was throwing the ball. Maybe he should stop before Derek came back from his furniture shopping and saw that Stiles had already managed to damage his loft.

 _Bong._

That would be awkward to explain.

 _Bong._

"Would you just stop with this juvenile behaviour?!" Lydia hissed at him from where she was sitting on the windowsill of the enormous window front that overlooked the whole of Beacon Hills. Stiles' laptop laid on her knees as she read through the research he had compiled.

It had been a good suggestion from Lydia to pinpoint the Alpha Pack's track via unsolved, mysterious crimes over the country. There wasn't much else information to go on, because the pack didn't leave much of it behind and those that knew something about them, either hadn't it written down or not in a way that Stiles and Google could find it.

So, he had turned back to good, old police work and had gone through all the databases his dad had access to (he had to thank his dad for never changing his passwords) and he did manage to distil the most likely path the Alpha Pack had taken over the last few years.

Most packs they had attacked weren't big, mainly because twenty or something dead people would arise more suspicion than five and because strong packs would be more likely to be able to fend the off. But when you knew what to look for, then it became easy: Five people that had no connection to each other found with shredded throats? A family on a camping trip attacked by wild bears? Six people that had been found dead within one month that had all been part of the same band?

Stiles found the connections and added the crimes to his research and what he found was a methodical approach that slowly moved from East Coast to West Coast, from North to South, taking wide berths around territories with strong packs, which Stiles knew because he had cross-referenced with information Derek had given him.

The Alpha Pack was cleansing the US of small packs that stood no chance against them. And with each defeated pack their power only grew stronger.

"It's compelling research," Lydia commented. "There are a few outlier which I don't think can be attributed to the Alpha Pack, but otherwise it paints a pretty clear picture."

"Yeah, but it isn't really much of a help, is it?" Stiles replied. "We now know where they have probably been, but it doesn't say anything about their methods or who they are."

"I think it does," Lydia countered. "In the majority of cases, the murders were stretched over two to three weeks. Only when it wasn't feasible – like the pack that was camping in the woods – did they murder everyone at once. That tells us that they enjoy what they're doing. If it was just about gaining power, they could just kill everyone and move on. But instead, they give themselves time, sometimes even leaving days between an attack and the next, leaving the alpha for last. They enjoy instilling fear, enjoy the terror they invoke. They want the pack they're after to know the hopelessness of their situation."

"Yeah me, I guess?"

"Don't be deliberately obtuse," Lydia snapped at him. She would have probably swatted him with his laptop if he wasn't sitting on the other side of the room. "I know you know how that helps us."

"They haven't attack anyone yet," Stiles remarked. "We don't know how much time usually passes between their arrival and the first attack, but it's been days already and nothing happened. Hell, we even know two members of their pack already." He caught the bouncy ball mid-air. "They want something else."

"Bingo," Lydia commented as if Stiles was her prized dog at a competition.

"So, I should count myself lucky then that, instead of murdering me, they want something from me which I pretty confident I won't be willing to give?"

Lydia just shrugged. "I'm not a psychic, I can't tell what they want from the information I've been given. There's only so much logical deduction can get you."

Stiles sighed. "It just sucks. Just sitting around, doing nothing and wait for them to make their move."

"But you aren't doing nothing," Lydia pointed out. "You're training with Derek and Scott to prepare yourself."

"Do you really believe that we even stand the slightest chance against a pack that has been murdering its way across the states?" Stiles asked with raised eyebrows.

Lydia pursed her lips, contemplating her answer.

"I think," she finally said, "that history is full of unlikely events that nobody thought could happen. No one believed that David could beat Goliath, after all."

"Have you talked to Allison?" Stiles asked, all of a sudden changing the topic. He didn't want to talk about the Alpha Pack and their likely demise at their hands any longer. He didn't think the precarious balance in his mind could take it.

Lydia – thanks heaven for her astute mind – took the change of topic in stride.

"I did," she told Stiles. "She's still pretty shaken about everything that happened, but I think that she will bounce back. Not necessarily to the person she was before, but something close to it."

"None of us will be the person we were before all of this," Stiles remarked.

Lydia just nodded. "She wants to talk to Scott. Clear things up with him."

"That's great!" Stiles exclaimed. Yes, the dynamic between Scott and Allison wasn't the healthiest one, but Stiles would be the last person on earth to deny his best friend a shot at happiness and for all their faults, Scott had been truly happy with Allison.

Would it throw a wrench in his plans? Probably. Pretty much. But Stiles was willing to accommodate for that, because he knew how much it meant to Scott and because Scott would do the same for him. After all, he had helped Stiles more than once in enacting schemes from his ten-year-plan, even though he had been more than doubtful that it would work.

"I do hope though, that Papa Argent won't come after him, should they get back together," Stiles commented. "That's the last thing we need. Argent involvement."

Lydia didn't immediately agree. "Chris and Victoria do adhere to that code of theirs, do they?"

"They claim to," Stiles replied warily. "I really don't like where this question is going."

"Couldn't we just ask for their help?" Lydia suggested.

Stiles laughed out loud. "Are you serious? They hate us! They'd rather see us and the Alpha Pack tear each other to shreds before they'd lift a finger to help us."

"Why are you so sure?" Lydia countered. "I don't dispute that Kate was a terrible person, but that's all she was: _one_ person. She doesn't stand for the whole Argent family. All I'm saying is that the Alpha Pack seems to be the exact type of supernatural that the Argents are supposed to fight against."

"I don't know, Lydia."

"I don't like it much either, but even if they only agree to not move against you, it'd be still something in your corner, you know?" Of course he did. There was depressingly little in their corner and so much stacked against them. "None of us can fight against the whole world."

Stiles looked at Lydia. She had moved the laptop off her lap, her legs now dangling off the windowsill, her shoulders hunched together as she gazed at Stiles with sorrow marring her beautiful features.

In this moment she looked like the frightened teenager she was. Like they all were.

Again, Stiles felt the enormous pressure of responsibility weighting down on him. What he would do if he could just cast it off, even if just only for a short moment, before he needed to get back to battling with forces that far surpassed his own powers. Just for a second being able to step out of time and have it pass him by.

So, he just did that.

He stepped forward, hesitantly, until he stood in front of Lydia. She looked up at him and he looked back, an unasked question in his eyes, which she answered with a just a short tilt of her head, barely noticeable, but Stiles saw it anyway.

He opened his arms and then he had engulfed her in a hug, hesitant and unsure at first, but when Lydia reciprocated it by slinging her arms around his torso and burying her head into his chest, he put a little more strength into it.

Lydia smelled like strawberries, Channel No. 3, wool and something Stiles couldn't quite pinpoint, something hidden, dangerous, but not to him. This was just a gesture of comfort and solace; there was no desire in it, no lust, no teenage drama. It seemed so silly now to Stiles, how he had been, how he had behaved, no that the threats hanging over their heads had shifted everything back into perspective.

"Do you regret it?" Stiles wanted to know. "Saying 'yes' when I offered you your answers? Not turning your back when you still had the chance?" For a while Lydia said nothing.

"No," she finally replied. "And even if, it would be my fault, wouldn't it? You warned me enough." She let go of Stiles and leaned back, still looking up to him. "I can still feel it, you know? This otherness under my skin, that's been there ever since prom. I need to know what it is, who I am. This is as much my journey of self-discovery as it is yours."

"I guess it is."

"So, stop asking me if I regret it," Lydia chastised him. "My answer won't change, no matter how often you ask." Stiles grinned at her loop-sided.

"I'll speak with Derek," he said to her. "The Argents hurt him the most, so I won't do anything regarding them without his consent."

Lydia nodded. "Alright. You can also ask him if there's anyone else in this town who knows about the supernatural."

"What do you mean?" Stiles wanted to know.

"It's just probability," Lydia replied. "The Hales were a big family. There had to be a few people in the know, even if it was just to help them hide." That sounded logical to Stiles.

"I'll ask him."

 **iii. state of mind: aggressive**

Jackson knew where Lydia was. And with whom.

His knuckles turned white as his grip around the steering wheel of his Porsche tightened, as the all too familiar rage and crippling self-doubt flooded his mind, set his veins on fire, everything around him becoming blurred and unrecognisable.

He hadn't planned to follow Lydia. He was many things, but he wasn't that kind of man, but his body had moved as if someone else was steering him and then she had met up with Stilinski of all people and then there was no turning back for him anymore.

Why was Lydia meeting Stilinski and why had they gone here, to this former industrial building that now housed a bunch of fancy lofts for all those people that didn't want their own house but still show that they had the money.

Stilinski certainly didn't live her, Jackson scoffed inwardly.

Was this Lydia paying him back for his thing with Danny? She certainly would know that doing that with Stilinski would drive the hurt even deeper than it would be with just a random hook-up, like she knew everything else that would make Jackson hurt. But that would break the unspoken rules between them that governed their relationship.

Lydia was one of the few things who belonged only to him. Stilinski may have friends, a family, albeit broken, and self-awareness Jackson lacked, but he didn't have her, never would. Jackson was nothing without Lydia, who complemented him like no one else did.

' _Not even Danny?'_ a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind. Jackson squashed it with all of his mental might. No, he loved Lydia and he was sure that she loved him back, in their own twisted way. They belonged together, at least until they made it out of this godforsaken town.

Jackson was torn out of his thoughts when the doors to the building's lobby opened and no other than Lydia stepped outside onto the sidewalk.

"Shit!" Jackson cursed. She couldn't be allowed to see him.

But it was already too late: His Porsche wasn't the most inconspicuous car, especially when there was practically no traffic and the street was all but empty. Lydia's gaze zoned in on Jackson sitting behind the steering wheel, an aura of barely restrained fury emitting off her, before she stomped over to him.

"Are you following me?" she snapped at Jackson after he had stepped out of the car. He knew that there was nothing he could say to his defence, so he just kept silent.

"Unbelievable!" Lydia exclaimed.

"What were you doing with Stilinski?" Jackson demanded to know, falling back on his usual pattern of hiding his uncertainty under a veneer of aggressiveness.

"It's of no concern what I do in my own free time or with whom," Lydia retorted back. "You know that I hate nothing more than being controlled and what you're doing seems awfully close to controlling me." Her eyes narrowed at him.

"Are you trying to get back at me for Danny?"

"Goddamnit, Jackson, not everything's about you!" Lydia shouted. "Unlike you, I refuse to be stuck being the same person I was in middle school. I want to grow and be someone else."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jackson shot back.

"You learned that you were adopted when you were eleven and you haven't changed since then," Lydia retorted. "You're still the same insecure, terrified boy who clings to things he thinks belong to him so tight that he's suffocating them." She let out a breath. "I get it, Jackson, I really do, but when will you start to grow and change? You can't be the same eleven-year-old boy for the rest of your life."

"So, you want me to be someone else?" Jackson asked, his voice full of bitterness.

"I want you to be _more_ ," Lydia replied. "Someone who has enough trust in the people who care about him that he wont stalk them out of fear that they may leave them."

"You knew who I was from the start," Jackson shot back.

"But that doesn't excuse this behaviour," Lydia replied. "Accepting you, doesn't mean that I have to give you a free pass for every fucked-up thing you do." Jackson clenched his fist, but he didn't say anything else. He never came out on top in verbal sparring matches with Lydia.

Only Stilinski did.

"Now, you can stay here, simmering in your self-pity and anger, or you can drive me home and maybe think about just changing a little bit." She stared at him challengingly. "What will it be?"

For a split-second Jackson didn't move.

Then he opened the passenger's door of his Porsche.


End file.
